


Aziraphale and Crowley, Ph.D

by OneWingRoyal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, College, Dream Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, They're Not Demons or Angels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26576779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWingRoyal/pseuds/OneWingRoyal
Summary: After a dark and violent past, Dr. John Aziraphale has finally turned himself around and landed a job as a university professor at Anglican University of London. He's a good upstanding citizen, all things considered; now, the next thing is to find a wife, have children, get a cottage with a white picket fence and settle down. Meeting Crowley from the English department may very well jeopardize that plan.E rating for sexual content in Chapter 10, and probably later
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 52





	1. Bad Omen

It’s funny how people express happiness in different ways. 

“Congratulations, John Aziraphale -- or should I say,  _ Professor  _ Aziraphale. You’re hired!” The Dean of the Anglican University of London, Gabriel Davidson, held his arms open in a wide embrace of their new faculty member. Meanwhile Aziraphale, who preferred to go by his last name, was all bunched up, trembling like a firecracker two ticks from exploding, every light-blonde hair perfectly frozen in place. He was finally here, employed in his dream field after over a decade of hard work! At times, he had been disillusioned, and thought that it would never happen, and yet, students would finally be able to look on their schedules and see “World History 101: J. Aziraphale,” just like he’d dreamt. He wanted to wrap Gabriel up in a big bear hug and thank him thousands of times over, but he was quite certain that that was unprofessional. Was it? It certainly was for a TA to do such a thing. Aziraphale wasn’t going to find out the hard way, that was for sure.

“Welcome, Dr. Aziraphale,” the associate dean next to him said, with a slight bow. She was Dr. Michael, as Aziraphale knew because he had looked up every member of the university’s faculty on LinkedIn so that he could make conversation instantly about their research, and so that he would not have the problem of forgetting their names as he was prone to do. He gave her his thanks, choosing not to mention that fact. 

“Now, we just need you to fill out some paperwork.” Of course; Aziraphale had brought his own pen, and checked his briefcase multiple times before leaving. For any other man, this would have been a slog, signing contracts and filling out employment forms. But Aziraphale was bouncing in his seat with a big dopey smile during every painstakingly perfect letter he wrote. 

“I’ve finished,” he said, stacking the papers neatly before he passed them back over to Gabriel, who then passed them over to Michael to peruse. After scanning through them, Michael nodded at the watchful Gabriel.

“Wonderful! You’re all done for today, then,” he said with a rehearsed smile. Aziraphale shook his hand, and then Michael’s, taking care to keep his grip firm and dry even with the way his body was shaking. “I should be seeing you in the halls around 8 am Monday morning for your first class.”

“I will be there with pleasure,” Aziraphale said, before grabbing his briefcase -- he finally had his very own professor’s briefcase! -- and walked out of the burnished mahogany room into the packed hallways. He couldn’t help but hold his briefcase close to his chest, not just to lower his profile and squeeze past the swarm of students more easily, but because he needed something to grip in lieu of dancing for joy in the middle of the university like an absolute loon. Even as he walked through the hallways, though, John Aziraphale could not suppress the extra bounce in his step. 

He needed to calm himself down somehow, maybe with a hot drink. Ooh, there was a coffee shop on campus! There had to be; otherwise every college student in the dorms would riot. Coffee was the last thing he needed right now though; maybe decaf? No…

Maybe he could get a hot chocolate like he was a little boy again? Aziraphale thought against it right afterward; sugar was second to caffeine in the list of things that would not be good for his nerves right now. 

Lavender tea? Oh, he was so presumptuous to think that they would have specifically lavender! Aziraphale already felt bad, even though the suggestion never left his lips. But something calming and warm like that sounded like a good idea. He would have to go and see what they had; oh, was he so excited to find out every random, largely pointless fact about his new university! 

Aziraphale was already beginning to feel like a native, between his new hire and committing the map of the entire campus to memory. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the entire layout of the university, letting his feet do the rest of the work. When he opened his eyes again, as if having made the campus his home already, he arrived right in front of his destination the…

He squinted.

Morgan Lester International Business Center. Wait, no, that wasn’t right. Where was he?! Was he even still on the same campus?? Aziraphale slumped as trying to intuit his way to his destination, while a cool idea in theory, was impractical at this stage.

“Really should just keep a print-out of the map on me for the first couple weeks,” he sighed. However, he checked his bag to find that he hadn’t had that foresight. Figures. He looked around for a sign, or one of those big maps of the campus, or something, but as he walked around and saw someone sitting on a bench, he figured he may as well swallow his pride and ask a person. Maybe he’d even make friends with the lanky redheaded man, lounging around in a black leather jacket and dark sunglasses.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look a bit like David Tennant?” a girl standing next to him asked.

“Yeah, I’ve gotten it a couple of times. I don’t see it personally,” the man answered with a leisurely shrug. Aziraphale paused, as he didn’t want to interrupt their conversation, but the girl left of her own accord. She was probably speeding off to a class, Aziraphale guessed. But before Aziraphale could work up the courage to get directions from the man, he noticed Aziraphale first. 

“Oi!” Aziraphale turned towards the man on the bench, and pointed to himself in confusion. “Yeah, you. You look like you’re lost.”

“Is it that obvious…?” Aziraphale meant to think it, but muttered it aloud instead. 

“Yeah,” the man said plainly. “Are you trying to find your kid’s dorm or something?”

“Oh, goodness no!” Aziraphale had no children, certainly not any of college age, and likely never would at this rate. “I’m a new professor in the History department.” He held out his hand and tried to hold himself more professionally. “Dr. John Aziraphale. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” After eyeing Aziraphale’s hand for a second, the other man took it in his own. 

“Crowley,” the redhead answered, giving Aziraphale’s hand one good shake up and down. Aziraphale’s father always taught him that you could tell everything about a man by his handshake, and he certainly could with Crowley; the man’s grip was loose and casual, almost like two friends swinging arms as they walked as opposed to a business environment. “What?”

Aziraphale didn’t even notice that he was making a strange face at Crowley’s hand to go along with his thoughts. He tried not to blush.

“I just thought that this environment would be a tad more… professional, even among students?” Aziraphale said when he should not have, as he felt Crowley’s mood immediately sour. His lips curled into a snarl, wrinkling his sharp nose. 

“It isn’t quite that stuffy here, mate. And, for the record, I’m not a student; I teach in the English department here,  _ Dr.  _ Aziraphale,” he said, mockingly. Crowley wasn’t afraid to make it clear that Aziraphale had royally pissed him off with a single sentence.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale responded almost inaudibly. They stood in silence for too long. “Would you… happen to know where the coffee shop is?” he asked, sheepishly. 

“Go down the road and eventually it’ll be on your right,” Crowley said curtly, and Aziraphale muttered out a mortified “thanks” before quickly shuffling off; he didn’t want to prolong this conversation any more than he had to. Just as he had gotten halfway down the path, he heard Crowley’s voice call out to him.

“You’re lucky you’re as cute as you are, Aziraphale! You’d be a lot worse off if you weren’t, I can tell you that much.” Aziraphale nearly choked on his own spit at that. He didn’t know what to do except flee even faster.


	2. Mending Fences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale comes to terms with his mistake, and takes another crack at befriending Dr. Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoy this new chapter! Not beta read because I'm a wimp.

Two hours after that, Aziraphale’s eyes began to sting from staring aimlessly into his tea. Of course, with the ever-efficient man that Aziraphale was, he had done everything that he’d planned to do that day. He had his tea and he pored over every abstract painting hanging on the walls of polished dark wood, every club poster on the bulletin board, every type of coffee that they offered, even the obscure types that Aziraphale had never heard of before. But the previous events soured Aziraphale’s exploration a bit. It would be one thing if Crowley had simply blown up at him for no reason; that would still have hurt since Aziraphale was a small, soft man and didn’t like being yelled at for any reason. But that was the least of his worries; he had one first impression with his peer, and he had used it to be shallow and rude. One chance to be a good person to be a good person, one chance to prove that he had changed from his troubled youth, and he had wasted it. And if there were any singular chance of Aziraphale putting the incident out of his mind, the thing that Crowley said right before he left stuck in his head. What was it, “You’re lucky you’re as cute as you are, because you’d be a lot worse off if you weren’t?” What did  _ that  _ mean? Was that a threat? Was it a word of warning? That one irregularity caused the entire incident to adhere itself to the forefront of Aziraphale’s thoughts, forming a pit in his stomach. 

This pit in his stomach followed him as he left the coffee shop that day and drove back to his flat in his cramped little car. It stayed with him for the entirety of the next week as he was struggling over the computer making PowerPoints and typing up tests on early European civilizations. No matter how much he tried to throw himself into his work, the guilt still sat with him. But after obsessing over his mistake for a week, Aziraphale woke up on Monday to the realization that he and Crowley worked at the same university, and that the other man was well within apologizing distance. Perhaps the last thing Crowley had said was not a threat, but a sign that Aziraphale still had a chance, if he could just show the other man that he was genuinely remorseful. As he donned a crisp white dress shirt and mustard-colored vest for the day, he decided that he would use his plan to apologize to Crowley as a distraction, keeping him from being too nervous about his first class ever as a professor that morning. 

Of course, as he drove to campus, the fear of being a bad professor was only compounded with the fear that Crowley would not forgive him, not overshadowed by it. Would Crowley even be on campus at this early hour? This was the only time that he could see Crowley before the late afternoon, but for some reason Aziraphale didn’t see Crowley as a morning person. Maybe Crowley would actively avoid him. Maybe Aziraphale would get lost and not be able to find the English building. Maybe something could happen that not even he could foresee! Maybe he’d die before he ever got there!

Aziraphale gasped and jerked his steering wheel to the left, the chassis of his hatchback jerking under the sudden force. His body jolted to the left as the front passenger wheel bumped over the median of the freeway, and then his torso nearly slammed into the car horn when Aziraphale slammed on the brakes at a red light. Hyperventilating, Aziraphale gripped his chest and slowly looked around once he realized that he had stopped. He, his car, and any stop signs in the area seemed to be unscathed, and other than a judging old woman walking her poodle on the sidewalk, no one was even near the road at this hour. Taking a deep breath and digging his fingertips into his own thighs, Aziraphale gazed off into the blanket of fog that covered the road. He wouldn’t be able to ever apologize to Crowley if he got polished off in a car accident before he even reached campus. As for why patching things up with Crowley was so important that Aziraphale found himself unable to stop thinking about it, even over basic road safety, he himself couldn’t tell for sure. But in his heart of hearts, Aziraphale had an honest conviction that it  _ was  _ important. And plus, even if Aziraphale and Crowley parted and never met again, righting a wrong against another person was reason enough, right? 

Driving the rest of the way at 10 under the speed limit, Aziraphale stopped his tumultuous journey when he pulled into one of the faculty parking spaces nearest to his building. 

“Thank you, good Lord,” he said as he crossed himself and turned his car off.. Before he left, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a paper map of campus, matching the blocks on the map to what he saw on campus. As for the frustratingly small text, he used his trusty pair of gold wire-frame glasses and squinted to read the finer details. He became so engrossed in every detail of the map that he wasn’t paying attention when he heard a loud knocking against his window. 

“Ack!!” Aziraphale fell over into his passenger side seat, and as the console slammed against the back of his thighs, his legs flew over his head and sailed through the air until his sensibly loafers made contact with the other window. The back of Aziraphale’s head hit the door handle just hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs and jostle his brain in his skull a bit. When his eyes flickered open again, his vision blurred a bit to where he couldn’t believe who he was seeing at first.

“Crowley…?” He shook his head and blinked a couple times to see the other man standing outside his car, still wearing those sunglasses of his despite the thick morning fog. Crowley gestured for Aziraphale to crank his window down, and once he got his bearings again, he did.

“Oi, why the fuck are you here so early?” Crowley asked, ever the chipper fellow. Aziraphale rubbed his head and took his glasses off when he was sure that they weren’t shattered or bent. 

“Why are you in front of my car?” Aziraphale asked in turn.

“I was making sure that you knew where you were and what time classes started, you senile old man,” Crowley shot back. “Did you misread your own clock or do you know that it’s 6 o’clock in the morning, you prideful shitbird?” 

“No, Crowley, I didn’t misread my clock,” Aziraphale muttered, and the script for this encounter that the man had so meticulously prepared fell out of his head in an instant. Biting his lip out of sheer nerves, he decided to just say exactly what was on his mind. “I came to apologize.” From over his dark glasses, Aziraphale could see one of Crowley’s eyebrows raise up in surprise. “I… I was incredibly shallow and pathetic when I talked to you the other day. I had just met you and yet instead of trying to make a genuine connection with you -- or even just asking you for directions like I wanted to in the first place -- I held you to rigid, arbitrary standards of… of-of professionality.” Was that a word? Aziraphale didn’t know. He was rambling now, hands gesturing in the airspace around him as he talked. “I came to apologize because you deserve better and because I do genuinely want us to be friends.” He forced himself to look Crowley in the face, despite the anxiety that facing him brought about. “You can walk away right now if you’d like, but perhaps I can buy you a coffee or something, and we can reintroduce ourselves on some better terms?”

Aziraphale searched Crowley’s face for any sort of emotion whatever, but for a few tense seconds that dragged on for seemingly hours, the other man’s face was completely frozen as he thought. While Aziraphale knew that it was right to not make Crowley forgive him, he still couldn’t help but hope that Crowley  _ would  _ forgive him, at least in some respect. He watched intently as Crowley tousled his dark red hair and sighed a nearly opaque cloud of breath.

“Well, as much as I love to hold a grudge, I’d feel awful about it with the way you’re looking at me,” Crowley admitted almost inaudibly.

“So does that mean we can be friends?” Aziraphale said, with a tone that bordered on goofy. 

“Fiiiiiiine,” Crowley droned with an eye roll, and as Aziraphale opened his car door he immediately face-planted into the concrete out of excitement.

\-----

“I forgot to ask how you take your coffee, so I got you some creamer and sugar just in case you wanted it.” Aziraphale set the large paper cup on the table in front of Crowley, the lid decorated with a tenuous pyramid of sugar packets and vanilla coffee creamer. Since they got to the coffee shop long before the morning rush, Crowley and Aziraphale had snagged some prized booth seating in a secluded corner. Aziraphale slid into the seat opposite Crowley and dragged his fingertips across the shiny dark-brown pleather. Settling into the comfy seating, Aziraphale held his Earl Grey close to his chest and looked up at Crowley, who was for some reason  _ still _ wearing his sunglasses inside. But Aziraphale didn’t ask about the sunglasses, lest he risk coming off as judgemental again; if Crowley wanted to share the story behind them, he would. Instead, Aziraphale asked him a more pertinent question. 

“Why are  _ you  _ here so early, Crowley? You seem like more of a night owl,” he asked, taking a sip of tea. 

“Oh, I slept over.” The unexpected answer made Aziraphale look up, and Crowley was nonchalantly taking the cap off of his coffee as if a professor sleeping over at their workplace was completely normal.  _ Was  _ it normal at AUL? 

“Oh?” Aziraphale prompted, careful not to say anymore.

“Yeah, there was a back-to-school party and I was there. I lost track of time after getting tipsy and fell asleep in some dorm somewhere,” Crowley explained as he reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a loose Aspirin. 

“Tipsy as in… alcohol? Isn’t this a dry campus?” Surely that was a valid question.

“‘Dry campus,’” Crowley repeated in air quotes, seeming to mock the very concept. Aziraphale was quickly distracted from this attitude when Crowley popped the capsule in his mouth and downed the entire 20 oz cup of boiling hot coffee in one gulp. 

“O-oh,” Aziraphale sputtered.

“What a silly thing, a ‘dry campus’. If you’re going to put students through so much debt for even a chance at a steady job, it’s not a harm to let ‘em have a drink or two once in a while. They’re old enough. They can do it responsibly,” Crowley continued. He surprised Aziraphale even further by drinking the coffee creamers like they were shots, crushing the flimsy containers in his hand and chucking them across the dining area into a nearby trash can. 

“Yeah, how draconian,” Aziraphale mumbled, not even listening at this point, following the sailing little projectiles with his eyes as they flew one by one.

“Exactly! You get it, Az,” Crowley said before popping one of the sugar packets in his mouth, paper and all. “Can I call you Az?”

“Sure,” Aziraphale said in a daze, getting mentally backhanded by every cursed, horrible thing that Crowley did all in a row. 

“Bril,” Crowley drawled, popping two more in his mouth and gnashing them between his teeth. “Anyway, as I was saying, it’s not Gabe’s business to decide what students do with their own free time. By the way, don’t tell him that I call him Gabe. He’d kill me where I stand.”

“‘Kay.” Aziraphale’s eyes were all but bugging out of their sockets at this point. 

“What is he, a cop? Maybe he should work on keeping students from looking up the answers to every quiz on the internet instead of feeding his power trip with this shit. Fucking disgrace.” Crowley finished off the rest of the sugar packets, then looked down to check the time. “Whoops, monologued so much that it’s time to get to my class. Don’t you have to teach soon too, Az? You should go early so you don’t get lost.” Crowley pushed himself up from his seat and patted the thoroughly shocked Aziraphale on the shoulder as he passed. “Good luck with that class, by the way. Hope they’re not idiots.” 


	3. The Teacher Becomes the Student

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets to see Crowley in action. However, Aziraphale's already getting into major trouble too, even before noon on his first day.

Despite his nerves, his inexperience, and the many many students that he could have disappointed that morning, Aziraphale considered his first class session ever to be a relative success. The clacking and clicking of a room full of Macbooks did distract Aziraphale at times; he preferred the more traditional feel of pen and paper, and a notebook would never send sensitive personal data to random nefarious people. That aside, Dr. Aziraphale’s syllabus was comprehensible and clear, most of his students were awake despite the early hour, and they did not seem to be, as Crowley had put it, “idiots.” Of course, it was only the first day of class and all of those blessings could change even within the next 48 hours, but a good and uneventful start gave Aziraphale a gem of hope that there would be a good and uneventful finish too. 

“That seems to be all I have on the docket for today,” Aziraphale finished. He tried to ignore that people had already been stealthily packing up for the last five minutes now, as he was too scared and doormattish to mention it. “Remember to read the first two sections of Chapter 1 for next class, and come with questions! Other than that, enjoy the rest of your day!” His bouncy energy and his genuine passion for history radiated through the rest of the room, and though many of his students were still half asleep, it provoked some smiles from them too. Still, most of them were just trying to get out and either get to their next class or get some coffee. Aziraphale was okay with that, and in fact he understood; he remembered the two hours of sleep he got a night while he crammed facts into his head in grad school, so he knew that there was only so much emotional energy that a student could put into class. 

However, as he packed his papers into his briefcase, he looked up to see one student that stood by his desk, an envelope held in her black-gloved hands. She stared down at Aziraphale through thick, coke-bottle glasses, but she wore a meek smile underneath them. 

“‘Ello!” he greeted. “What can I do for you?”

“I do hope I’m not intruding,” the tanned girl in front of him said, standing straightly in her black trenchcoat. “My name’s Anathema Device. I emailed you earlier this week about accomodations from the Disability Office for my eyesight. I was just coming to ask if you’d received it?”

“Oh, bother,” Aziraphale muttered. Of course she had emailed something so important to him. That was zero percent her fault of course; she wasn’t the one that had entered the wrong password several times into Aziraphale’s account only to get locked out of it by the sheer magnitude of her inability to type properly. “I’ve been having a, er, slight problem with my technology recently. I really am rubbish with that sort of thing.” Anathema chuckled.

“My boyfriend has that exact same problem,” she remarked with amusement. “Anyway, I printed the letter from them out just in case this happened. I figured I’d just give it to you now, if you didn’t have it already.” 

“Thank you! Much obliged,” Aziraphale said as he took the letter, noticing the ornate red seal that held the envelope shut. “Nice touch,” he added as he ran his thumb over the grooves in the wax. Anathema said nothing, but giggled bashfully. 

“I’m glad you appreciate the craftsmanship of it, Dr. A,” Anathema said. “Well, I need to get to my next class now. See you on Wednesday, Professor!” she added, waving behind her. With that, she walked out into the hall, boots clacking on the wood floor. 

“See you then, Anathema!” he said, saying the name so that he could memorize it instead of referring to her as ‘that one girl with the glasses’. While one part of his brain was putting this name into his memory so that it did not get confused in the sea of other names he had to memorize, the other was busy being giddy that 1) Aziraphale was actually a professor, like a  _ real  _ professor with a real class and real students and a real briefcase and that 2) he had already gotten an initialized professor nickname his first day on campus. He packed up his effects and walked out the door of his classroom with an extra spring in his step. 

“Oh!” As soon as he saw Crowley sauntering through the halls, he awkwardly speed-walked after him, weaving through students and other faculty and hustling his way to his destination. He tapped the other man’s shoulder once he was in range, and Crowley turned around to look at him.

“Oh, Az,” Crowley greeted. “I’d love to stay and chat with you, but I’ve got a class to teach in, er...” The redhead looked at his bare wrist and realized that he not only didn’t have a watch, but never owned one. “A bit.”

“About that,” Aziraphale said, starting to lose his breath from keeping up with Crowley and his inconveniently long legs. “Would you mind if I sat in on your class and took some notes? I’ve read lots of books on teaching, of course, but all the books in the world can’t replace good old natural observation!” Crowley shrugged.

“You’re welcome to, if you’d like. I’m not exactly the pinnacle of scholarship, but whatever helps you feel better, I guess.” Crowley held open the door to the classroom once they had arrived there. “Just don’t distract me,” he added with a smirk. “After you.” Aziraphale skipped through the door and took a seat in the corner, pen and notebook at the ready. 

However, once Crowley took his place at the front of the class, his face changed completely. His jaw locked into a scowl and he stood up straight. Despite Crowley’s obscured eyes, he could feel Crowley’s fiery gaze scan the room, surveilling every student. Aziraphale shuffled back into his seat a bit to try and avoid it, and he wasn’t even the one that would be getting a grade from this man.

“Good morning, class. Welcome to English 111: Intro to Literary Study,” Crowley droned with prominent enunciation as soon as the clock hit 9:05; despite his words, his tone communicated that he had never actually had a good morning in his life. “Before we go into class today, I would like to review some important policies of mine, and if you respect me at all as an intellectual, as a man of renown within this field, you  _ will  _ respect them as well.” He paced around in front of the front row, shoulders square and hands locked behind his back like a general. “First of all, there is no food or drink in my classroom. Anyone caught with these will be dropped from the class immediately. If you cannot manage your time well enough to have breakfast, it will not be my burden and the burden of everyone else in this classroom. You will starve.” Crowley’s glare pierced some poor freshman that quickly shoved a peanut butter sandwich back into his bag. “Second of all, I will not accept tardiness, whether in class or with your assignments. Late work will receive a zero, and do not dare ask me about “makeup work” or “extra credit”. You will not have the opportunity to make up for incompetence in my classroom. As for classes, I lock the door precisely at 9:05, so if you cannot be bothered to show up on time, then you will not be allowed to show up at all.” 

“Finally, there will be two novels a week assigned, and your examinations will be a midterm and a final. Both of these will add up to 84% of your grade in this class.”

“Goodness…” Aziraphale muttered, looking around at the mix of horror and indignance on the students’ faces. Could easy-going Crowley really be that draconian about his classroom rules? His pen stilled as he looked to the front of the room, wide-eyed.

But the tension in the room didn’t last long. Crowley let out a slight snicker, and pretty soon he was doubled over in hyena-like laughter.

“Ohhhh, that’s so funny and so mean all at once. Never gets old though!” he chuckled, and the entire class stopped holding their breath. 

“‘The midterm and the final will add up to 84% of your grade’,” he repeated in a deep mockery of his own impression. “You should have seen all your faces! That’s the one that always gets people. You’re fuckin’ awake now though, aren’t ya!” An uproar of relieved conversation reverberated throughout the lecture hall. 

“Oh my god…” one of the students slurred out among the chatter.

“Anyway, all of that’s bullshit, read the syllabus for my actual policies, talk to me after class about anything else, and you, go ahead and eat your sandwich. I genuinely don’t give a fuck as long as you’re not noisy about it,” Crowley muttered. “Now! Open up your books to page 6 and share with a buddy if they don’t have it yet. We’re all friends here.”

Aziraphale peered over at another student’s textbook and continued taking notes religiously on everything that Crowley did. But eventually, his eyes wandered back up to the front of the room, as the pictures and paragraphs in the book proved to be far less interesting than Crowley and his teaching. Aziraphale usually thought of English classes as incredibly boring, but with the way that Crowley taught, he couldn’t help but be enthralled with every word that left his lips. His hand eventually stopped writing notes because Aziraphale was already committing every flick of the wrist, every pacing step, every insightful comment and engaging thought to memory. Aziraphale even forgot to breathe at some points. The man only awoke from his beautiful demonic trance when an alarm on Crowley’s phone rang out, announcing the end of class. 

“Do your bloody reading, kids!” was Crowley’s parting phrase to the classroom, and as soon as he sat down he was immediately swarmed by a horde of people with what Aziraphale assumed to be add slips for the class. Aziraphale gazed longingly at Crowley, yearning to stay and walk with him, but his next class of the day would be starting soon and he would be incredibly late if he waited until everyone else left. Plus, Aziraphale added internally, he wasn’t Crowley’s doting little lapdog, and acting like it would probably smother their budding friendship before it even really began.

So, Aziraphale walked out the door, briefcase in hand. The crowds had thinned up a little bit, but for some reason he felt the sensation of being watched. Had Crowley already dealt with all of those people?

“Lovely day out, isn’t it, mate?” Aziraphale looked beside him suddenly to find a short… man? Woman? Pile of spider legs and dead lawn trimmings. Their voice had a similar emotional impact to Crowley’s impression from the beginning of class - that is, their voice had no emotional impact at all. Aziraphale was simply making conversation with a mop of black hair and two buggy, judgemental eyes. 

“Well, the fog certainly is nice, but -- ack!” Aziraphale jumped as he was accosted by a small air horn pressed against his cheek. “My goodness, what was that for?” he sputtered, trying his best to be polite despite the very loud noise with which the person had attacked him.

“My apologies for scaring you,” the voice drawled. “It’s just that those with guilty consciences are more easily startled by loud noises, and you look very guilty to me.”

“G-Guilty?” Aziraphale stammered. “Guilty of what, might I ask?”

“I think you already know what you’re guilty of, Dr. Aziraphale!” the shorter person hissed, stomping to emphasize their accusatory words. “What, why else would you have been so… so horribly creepy with that freshman, and then dared to follow her and watch her in her own classroom?! Do you have a life, good sir, or are you as much of a pathetic worm as I assume?!” Aziraphale blinked, putting the pieces together in his mind. Anathema was in that classroom too? He would have thought that it was a funny coincidence if it wasn’t being used as circumstantial evidence to accuse him of stalking in a kangaroo court.

“That’s not what I was doing at all! I can explain everything!” he said with his hands out in front of him, voice barely above a whisper. He could see other students turn around to watch the spectacle, all based around a misunderstanding.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses, you weasel! I will make you pay for --”

“Oi oi oi oi oi oi!” Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief as he heard a familiar voice come charging through the halls. Crowley’s lithe figure stood between him and the other person, hands on his hips. “He’s fine, Bill.” 

“Then why’d you escort this creep into your classroom to hit on women, huh?!” the other person, presumably Bill, shot back.

“ _ He’s  _ not hitting on anyone, Beelzebub. He’s new, so he’s been following me everywhere on campus like a lost little puppy.” Aziraphale blushed at that descriptor from behind Crowley’s back; was he already coming off like that? “He came into my classroom looking for teaching tips from me, and I let him sit in to see for himself. Believe me, I’m keeping an eye out for this stuff as much as you are.” This reassurance seemed to calm Beelzebub’s temper down to a low simmer.

“I know, I know you are,” Beelzebub grumbled. “I just don’t want any more of that sort of lot around!” They sighed. “But this is just a shy little lost newbie you’ve adopted?”

“Exactly. You should have seen his little face when I finally agreed to go get coffee with him,” Crowley said with a chuckle. Aziraphale was so embarrassed at this point that he didn’t even register the odd nature of the name Beelzebub.

“Crowley, I’m right here,” he muttered, his cheeks tomato-red. 

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley said. “This is Beelzebub Martin, from the Biology department. They do research on spider diseases or something.”

“Fliesssssss, Crowley, fliesssss!” Beelzebub corrected with a buzz. 

“Good to meet you,” Aziraphale said with a firm handshake from behind Crowley. He was willing to let bygones be bygones, he decided; after all, Beelzebub’s intentions were pure. However, as he stuck his hand out, he looked at his watch and realized that his class was supposed to have started two minutes ago. With a panicked shriek, he rushed off to his classroom with his briefcase in hand, luckily arriving before anyone had even noticed that he was late. However, as he calmed down and started to greet his class, he couldn’t help but wonder why Beelzebub was so diligent about that sort of thing, even to the point of confronting him in a public hallway, even to the point that Crowley was worried about it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:  
> 1\. I've just learned about Britpicking, and obviously this work has not gone through that sort of process. I'm a filthy American. No one pointed it out but pls don't skewer me if I accidentally put the steering wheel on the left side of the car like I did in chapter 2 T-T
> 
> 2\. Hello to everyone that subscribed to this fic! I didn't know 14 people were actually interested in this enough to hit subscribe and I didn't know what that button did until yesterday, so uh, cool! I love writing this and I try to get a chapter out a day, but I'm a college student writing this to cope and sometimes it might deviate from that a little bit due to business and energy and all that. Thanks for reading!


	4. All In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unaware to Aziraphale, two roommates in his class are starting to make bets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for casual homophobia. No slurs or anything, just laughable gay conspiracy theories.

Warlock Dowling, son of U.S. ambassador Thaddeus Dowling, was the heir to a substantial fortune; when his father finally croaked, he would be handed more money as a matter of legal course than 99% of people made in their entire lives. With his status, he would be able to walk into any position in the U.S government short of the damn presidency. He certainly walked into AUL; his college search process was that he picked a place on the globe that piqued his fancy, and his dear old dad sent him into the PoliSci program there, no questions asked, no FAFSAs filed, no essays written. But to those that did not know this about him, he was just some emo freshman scowling through the halls of his brand new shiny exchange school, and as such he had to deal with his terrible new history professor’s gargantuan amount of reading each week like everyone else. 

Sitting on one of the twin beds in his dorm room, he finally gave up and closed his history textbook before rhythmically slamming his head into the hard cover. 

“Already kicking the bucket?” His roommate, one Adam Young, turned around in his office chair and lazily looked over at Warlock. Unlike his roommate, Adam wound up at AUL because it was the school that would give him and his poor family free tuition, room and board in exchange for his exceptional, hard-won talents in water polo. If Adam, say, broke his arm and had to drop out, both he and his parents would likely be in five-figures of debt each. The difference in their upbringings caused tensions between Adam and Warlock and in Adam’s eyes, the latter’s constant complaining over the simplest of assignments wasn’t helping things. 

“I hate this fuckin’ professor so much!” Warlock said between thuds.

“Warlock, you’ve said that about every professor you had today,” Adam groaned.

“Well they all suck!” Warlock threw his book up in frustration, and it landed spine-first on the bed before bouncing off somewhere. “Dr. Warren sucks, and Dr. Martin sucks, and Dr. Ariza -- Azirop -- the history one sucks MASSIVE dick!” 

“Sorry you don’t know how to read.” Adam was acting uncharacteristically unhelpful and rude, but facing the fact that he would have to live with Warlock for a whole year at least was wearing on him. “That’s kind of a requirement here.”

“I don’t want to read! Aren’t they supposed to teach this shit instead of me having to learn it myself from a stupid book?!” Warlock flopped backward onto the bed, black hair spreading out onto the sheets. 

“It’s not like high school. You have to put in work yourself. They expect that you’re an adult,” Adam muttered, having already gone back to his reading.

“Whatever. They suck.” Adam sighed when Warlock finally quieted down. This momentary peace wouldn’t last long, though. Soon, Adam heard more noise from behind him. Adam turned around to see Warlock with his eyes closed and his legs crossed, shit-eating grin on his face as he let out little childish giggles.

“What is it now?”

“He’s probably gonna get beat up by all the other professors for being gay.” Adam shook his head as if splashed with cold water.

“Okay, first, you’re a psychopath.”

“I know,” Warlock giddily said, not getting the point.

“Second, why do you think he’s gay?” Warlock looked at Adam as if he’d grown two heads, like he was offended that Adam had even wasted his time asking him such an obvious question. 

“‘Why do I think he’s gay?’ Look at him!” 

“Not a good argument,” Adam mumbled with an eye roll for emphasis.

“It’s true though! Just like… look at his mannerisms. No straight man  _ prances _ like that.”

“What?”

“He’s got limp wrists. He’s got gay wrists.” Adam would have laughed if he didn’t know that Warlock was dead serious about being this casually homophobic.

“No.”

“He’s got handjob wrists.”

“What are you _ talking  _ about?” Adam sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose to avoid getting a worse migraine than he already had. “Look. Just shut the hell up. Please. I’m begging you.”

“I bet you 20 bucks he’s gay.”

“Did you even hear what I said?”

“Alright, 50.”

“You’re not even listening.”

“100?” It was then that something occurred to Adam. Warlock was so rich that these kind of petty, demeaning bets were like dropping a penny on the ground to him. There was a good chance that even if Warlock was right, he would have forgotten about the entire situation by the time the deciding evidence came out, and he would never come for his money. If Warlock was wrong and Dr. Aziraphale had a beautiful heterosexual wife at home -- which is what Adam hypocritically imagined also based on bullshit intuition but whatever -- it would be like Adam was printing money, getting 100 pounds over this meaningless debate. Tuition paid for a lot, but it didn’t pay for the little things that made Adam happy, and Warlock’s money would. Plus, Adam would get to steal money from his terrible roommate, and though reveling in that was ethically dubious, he couldn’t help but like the idea of it.

“200 quid and I’m in,” he finally decided.

“You’ve got a deal,” Warlock said with a smirk, and they shook on it. 

Adam’s grudge against Warlock bled into Aziraphale’s office hours the next day, and he was determined to cash in his easy money quickly. Luckily when he walked up to the professor’s office on the second floor of the Humanities building, Aziraphale was just sitting there, organizing paperwork.

“Hello, Professor Aziraphale,” Adam greeted with a couple of light knocks at the open door. Aziraphale looked up from his papers, his face lighting up.

“Hello... “ Aziraphale paused, slowly raising a finger to point. “Adam…?”

“Yeah,” Adam said with a polite smile, and Aziraphale chucked at the awkwardness of the situation.

“Sorry, still learning everyone’s names,” he explained. “What can I help you with?”

Adam sat down and began discussing things that he “wasn’t understanding” in the first chapter of the textbook. Of course, it was all bullshit; Adam understood everything in the text reasonably well, because he actually read through it instead of complaining for hours on end. However, Warlock’s constant ranty questions did give Adam some material to work with regarding things he could have reasonably misunderstood, and he chose the less asinine ones to go in with. His plan was reasonably foolproof. 

There was just one problem with Adam’s get-rich-quick-scheme: it wouldn’t be quick at all. With every question came an encyclopaedic explanation from Aziraphale that was far,  _ far  _ too long and detailed; Adam thought that if he were a history major, he might not have been checking his watch so often. But at some points, Adam’s eyes were glazing over and his mind was just a VCR player screensaver with one brain cell drifting back and forth, bouncing against the walls. He could tell that his professor was passionate about his craft and that was better than some of the detached, money-grubbing assholes that he’d had in high school, but when Aziraphale’s office hours had technically been over for 30 minutes and he was still rambling about the basket-weaving practices of some ancient civilization on the African continent, this wasn’t going to help Adam get any closer to his £200 goal. 

“And that’s why some historians think to this day that these peoples were actually matriarchal in nature!” There, Adam saw his opportunity and took it.

“Oh, I’m sure your wife wouldn’t mind going back to that way of life!” Out of view, Adam pressed a button on his phone, and it began recording audio of everything that happened afterwards.

“A wife? Oh no, I haven’t got one of those at home yet. Here’s hoping soon, though!” Aziraphale said, taking a sip of tea.

“You’re hoping for a wife?” Adam’s mind had been so fried by random facts about the Stone Age that his act faltered. “So you are heterosexual?”

“Completely and totally,” said Aziraphale, giving his automatic answer as his mind was still embroiled in arrowtips and ancient remedies.

“Not even a little bit gay?” The continued insistence as well as the more colloquial phrasing gave Aziraphale pause.

“... _ Am  _ I a little bit?” he muttered, forgetting that he was answering a question for a student. Adam’s heart leapt into his throat.

“No, you’re not,” he sputtered out of panic.

“No, I’m not,” Aziraphale repeated, agreeing that what Adam said probably seemed right. “I want a wife and children, and I would not even consider a male relationship whatsoever.” After a pause, he turned to Adam and lowered his voice. “But don’t worry, I see what you’re really getting at, and it will never leave this office.”

“Huh…?”

“Ah, I remember college. It’s such a good time to find out who you really are, without parental influence. I for one am glad that you’re finding your true life, realizing you’re homosexual and all.”

“... _ Huh? _ ” 

“I may not be the strong gay male role model that you’re searching for on this tumultuous journey of yours, but never fret! Eventually, the right supportive homosexual father figure will find you. Just believe in yourself, and keep following your dreams! Until then, I will be here if you have any more history-related questions.” Adam was very confused on Dr. Aziraphale’s logic, but chose not to correct him. After all, he’d already gotten the audio clip he needed. Adam switched his phone off.

“Thanks for the help, Professor Aziraphale! See you tomorrow!” Adam left, and immediately texted Warlock the audio, trimmed down for size.

“I accept Venmo and cash,” he added. He got a response almost immediately.

“Whatever. I still think he’s lying, but take your money.” It might have been the most unethical 200 quid that Adam had ever gotten, with all the ways that he manipulated Aziraphale. But god, it would be worth it when he could afford snacks that were actually good, instead of cafeteria barely-food. With that little bit of audio off of Aziraphale, Adam would dine like a king and rub every bit of it in Warlock’s stupid face.


	5. Stapler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale goes on a wild goose chase and meets some unsavory coworkers in the process. CW: Brief eating disorder mention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats y'all, you get a long one. Long and thick and hard and dripping. (Please someone stop me I'm actually 12)
> 
> The Horsemen are in this and they're hopefully similar enough to their show characters to tell which is which. I just changed their names so they could actually be human. Enjoy!

“There we go!” Aziraphale had finally lined up every copy of his first test into neat little stacks all across his desk. Seeing all these little stacks really gave Aziraphale a sense of just how many students he had, but at least he would be prepared for all of them. Now, he just needed to staple them all together --

“Hm?” As he reached over, his hand swept right through air where he expected for it to hit the stapler. “That’s strange…” He looked around his office, even crouching on the floor to see if it had dropped somewhere, but he couldn’t find it anywhere. How could he have already lost his stapler? Aziraphale had even labeled it with a print out of his own name! 

He got up off the floor and dusted his shirt off with an exasperated sigh. Trying to fasten those tests with a less secure method like a paperclip would be a recipe for a world of crunched and lost papers, and there was  _ absolutely  _ no way in Hades that Aziraphale was going to try and figure out the stupid learning program that everyone in the college was using to have fancy ~digital tests~, especially not after he’d already used all this paper and ink. 

Swallowing his pride and actually deciding to ask for help, he walked out the door to Crowley’s office in the English building, but the man’s chair was empty and he had obviously gone out to lunch. Aziraphale thought about snooping through to see if he could borrow Crowley’s stapler anyway, but he decided that that would be rude and highly unprofessional. So, he went to his second option: back to the history building to the Departmental Assistant’s office. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Aziraphale, but our stapler also disappeared some time ago,” the lone DA in the office said. 

“What is this epidemic of stapler thievery at this college?” Aziraphale asked, throwing his hands up in a lukewarm expression of frustration. The DA shrugged. “Oh, well, thanks anyway.” Okay,  _ third  _ option then. Aziraphale power-walked over to the administrative building, as Gabriel was the next person down on the list of people he even knew at this school.

“Aziraphale! My good friend!” Gabriel opened his arms when Aziraphale knocked, and he was given deja vu back to when he first got hired. “What can I help you with?” 

“Hello, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said with an awkward wave. “I was wondering if you might have a stapler that I could borrow.”

“I have a stapler in my office.” Aziraphale looked over to see someone else sitting in the corner of Gabriel’s office, a woman with hair and blazer and heels and pencil skirt all drenched in red. She reclined back into her chair and spoke to him in a sultry voice. Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of it when she licked her lips at him. “I’m Carmine Warren. You must be the new guy, in the history department. Come, I’ll walk you over!” Without so much as a word from him, Dr. Warren grabbed his hand and started leading him along the campus towards what he presumed to be her office. From what he remembered, she was in the business department, but he noticed that she took isolated, winding paths far from the actual building, making him wonder if they were going there at all. Despite the red flags that he saw and the way he was really getting worn-out from all this walking, Aziraphale was too nice to have a full-out argument with a woman that he’d just met, and so he kept quiet as much as he could. Eventually, after what seemed like a marathon, they did arrive at the doors of the Business center, meaning that Aziraphale had no reason to be worried… right? 

Before he could register what was happening, he fell over onto the floor of Dr. Warren’s office right before she entered and shut the door. It might have been his imagination, but he swore he heard the click of that door locking. 

“Oh my goodness, you poor, sad pathetic little man! Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Aziraphale looked up with foggy vision and staggered to his feet, barely even registering what was happening. 

“No, no, I’m fine…” he mumbled, head spinning. 

“Here, I’ve got you.” Was she laughing at him or was he hearing things? Eventually, he was sat down on a chair, and he shook his head rapidly to try and get his bearings again. Once he opened his eyes, he saw Carmine pressing her pointed nose up against his, cradling his head in one hand. 

“Hmmm… you don’t seem to be too injured. Damn it.” Her eyes scanned his body before looking up and staring into Aziraphale’s eyes and resting there. Aziraphale sat, not knowing what was going to happen next, but Carmine just… watched him, eyes locked with his. He could hear the clock in her office ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Aziraphale had heard something once. He didn’t remember from where, but he heard that if you look someone in the eyes for seven seconds or more, it meant you either wanted to make love to or murder them. For Aziraphale, it might have been the first option, if loving a woman felt like being extremely uncomfortable, and a little bit sick at her being in his personal space for so long. It didn’t feel right. None of this felt right.

“Stapler,” Aziraphale said simply, breaking the tension. 

“Oh, yes.” Carmine arose and sat at her desk, rummaging through some drawer. Her eyes lit up and Aziraphale was hoping, even begging to the universe that she found a stapler so he could just get the hell out of there without rocking the boat too much. Instead, however, she pulled out a dagger, and Aziraphale’s eyes widened in alarm. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” she drawled with a scoff. “I’m not going to hurt you, especially not with this. You don’t need to be paranoid.” She waved it around and despite her words, Aziraphale’s eyes couldn’t help but follow the blade, as if losing sight of it would mean his demise. “You’re a history guy, right? I just got this from my grandpa in his will. It’s really old, and I was wondering if it might have any significance in some war.”

“If I’m not mistaken, that’s a, er… 46-8, used commonly by American troops in the 2nd World War.” Aziraphale would have been much more delighted to spout his random history facts if he wasn’t so terrified. 

“Ding ding ding!” Wait, why was she saying that as if she already knew before she even asked the question? “I shudder at the thought of how many German soldiers he used this on.” Carmine flipped the blade in her hands. “I wonder if this could still be used today on… someone.”

“I wonder if there might be a stapler in that same drawer,” Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. But Carmine just looked at the knife, then looked at him, then at the knife, then back at Aziraphale. He decided that even if this woman wasn’t about to kill him, she was also not about to give him a stapler. 

“It’s really fine,” he finally said, getting up and politely but quickly making his way towards the door. “I’ll just try and find my own again.”

“Are you positive?” Carmine asked. “I have it right here.”

“No, no, it’s really okay,” Aziraphale muttered, already jiggling the door handle by the time she asked. He looked down when the door wouldn’t open; bloody hell, she  _ had _ locked it! Luckily though, they were on the inside, meaning that Aziraphale only had to push in a button to get the door unlocked again. A wave of relief swept over him when the doorknob finally turned all the way over in his hand. “Good day!” he exclaimed, before slamming the door quite forcefully behind him. He swore he could hear giggling from behind him. Even though he was safe now, an unseen force told him to run, run, run far away, run as fast as he could, run as fast as his legs would move. He didn’t know where he was running to, as he sprinted from the building, just… anywhere. When his legs finally gave out, he was at the Psychology building. He didn’t like talking to strangers, but at this point he decided that any stranger would be better than Carmine. Limping through the halls, he found that most professors were out to lunch or in classes, but one door was open. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale sweatily greeted, trying to keep his composure after the ordeal he’d just escaped. A dark bearded man looked up from typing at his desk. 

“Oh, good afternoon,” he greeted with a voice like molasses. “Please, have a seat, good sir.” Aziraphale obliged, and when he looked up he saw a name tag: “Dr. Fabien Sable”. 

“Pardon me, I’d be happy to talk to you right after I get to a good stopping point in the presentation that I’m writing.” 

“Not a problem,” Aziraphale said. “Sorry if I seem out of breath. I’m coming to realize just how large this campus is.” Aziraphale wasn’t going to get into what had actually happened; he would save it for a more private conversation with Gabriel. Fabien chuckled.

“No, not at all. It’s good to get plenty of exercise. God knows you need it,” Fabien muttered.

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale asked. Was he about to run into a second wingnut, right after the first?

“Oh, no, not like that!” Fabien corrected, attempting to be modest. “It’s just that exercise can do wonders for a variety of maladies. I should know; I’ve been studying it for decades as a health psychologist.”

“Oh, very interesting,” Aziraphale said.

“I sure think so,” Fabien said with a chuckle, eyes glued to his computer screen. “My main specialty is how weight and the mind intertwine with one another. In fact, this presentation of mine is on the impact that prolonged water fasting can have on a person’s mental clarity.”

“Oh? How prolonged can humans even survive on water alone?”

“A surprisingly long time, actually. A 30-day study may seem extreme to some, but the data doesn’t lie. As the subjects came in for their weekly check-ups, they came in with model-like figures and winning smiles. There was an overarching theme of discomfort among them at the start, of course, but as the weeks passed and the weight dropped off and they got over the initial side effects, they became ecstatic. Even women with many stone of extra fat at the beginning of the study came in by week 4 looking absolutely skeletal, addicted to the feeling and unable to stop, and I for one found it a beautiful transformation. By the way, we’re accepting study applicants on a rolling basis, and it would be wonderful to have you as a participant in my research, to help you shed those love handles I see. What do you say? If you’d like, I can have you sign the forms right now or you can take them home with you --”

Fabien stopped as he heard Aziraphale’s footsteps echoing down the hall, great thudding sounds that came one after the other in a frantic beat. 

“Some just aren’t destined for greatness, I guess,” Fabien muttered with a sigh, and went back to his work.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale continued to walk out of the psychology building, speed hindered by his exhaustion. It was entirely possible that Dr. Sable  _ wasn’t _ secretly running a starvation-based death cult under the guise of a psychological study, but he certainly didn’t want to stick around to find out. He thought about not sticking around  _ at all _ on campus, and just going home early for the day since he didn’t have any classes to teach, but he knew that he would forget to staple those tests if he interrupted his train of thought by an entire day. So, he went down the list of people that he knew, people that he trusted at least a little bit, people that likely weren’t going to stab him or lure him into his own demise in any other way, and Beelzebub from yesterday came to mind. Yes, they may have accused him of egregious things, but they knew that he wasn’t  _ actually _ a predator and damn it, Beelzebub was better than either alternative. So, Aziraphale trudged over to the science building, and looked up at the directory for their room. Then, he walked up to room 134, which seemed to be occupied. However, the overwhelming fumes of chemicals and a shock of white hair in his vision told him that someone else other than Beelzebub was present.

“Is this --” Aziraphale hacked and coughed into his hand. His sensitive stomach really wasn’t appreciating the onslaught of… whatever horrible gas was in the air. “Is this Dr. Martin’s lab?” The woman at the other end of the room turned around.

“Oh, it is. They’re out of the office for today though. I’m Pollina Weiss. Nice to meet you!” Her voice was muffled; she was wearing a ventilator mask and goggles. Aziraphale’s eyes began to sting; whatever material she was working with, she could tell it was caustic and very very potent. He would need to get to the point and fast, before something horrible happened to him.

“Do you have a stapler I can borrow?” he asked. “And isn’t this room supposed to have a vent?”

“Oh, I shut all of the vents off. We wouldn’t want a drop of this precious, lethal material leaving without me getting my money’s worth out of it.” Aziraphale shut his eyes tightly; yes,  _ money _ was the concern. Of course. “As for a stapler, I can’t help you. I think my friend Dr. Death -- I mean Dr. Declan might have one. He’s in room 200 of the Philosophy building right now.” 

“Thanks!” Aziraphale gagged out, quickly opening the door and all but collapsing onto the floor outside. His lungs burned, his eyes burned, and he was so nauseated that he had to clench his jaw to keep from doing something disgusting. At least the physical effects of being in that room started to die down after he started to breathe in fresh air again. Despite his state, Aziraphale staggered out towards the Philosophy building, because damn it, if he had to go through all of this, he was  _ going  _ to come back with that accursed stapler. Aziraphale walked very slowly, one foot in front of the other, and by the time he actually reached room 200, the sun was dying in an orange sky.

Aziraphale opened the door to find a nearly pitch-black room. Choral music played from a radio, reverberating and bouncing from wooden wall to wooden wall. The only sources of light were fake candles scattered around the room, placed in between and on top of all the desks that were shoved towards the walls. A group of students sat cross-legged in a circle, and a tall, gangly man stood over them, resting with his cane and his big but seemingly obedient white dog. Seemingly, this man was Dr. Declan, although Aziraphale could not discern most of his facial features through the large black face mask he wore. What Aziraphale could see of the other man's face seemed to be blistered and deformed, though he couldn't tell if that was a trick of the light or not.

“Who is there?” Declan boomed.

“John Aziraphale.” But Aziraphale hadn’t even opened his mouth to introduce himself; rather a chorus of 3 or 4 students all spoke at once.

“John… Aziraphale. That name seems familiar…” 

“He’s the new history professor,” two more students said. 

“Ah, yes,” Declan said, though something in his tone communicated that he hadn’t gotten his full answer. “Why is he here?”

“To borrow a stapler,” Aziraphale said, since he knew that the circle of meditating students couldn’t answer that. Wait,  _ could  _ they answer that? He had experienced so many off-the-wall things today that he wouldn’t be surprised if they already magically knew his intentions.

“Ah, I cannot help you with that. I am busy with my… club. Would you care to join us?” Declan asked, his tone much more well-adjusted than the other three people that Aziraphale had talked to that day. 

“No thank you,” Aziraphale grumbled, regardless, and he opened the door back up and walked out into the sunset-lit plaza. He rubbed his eyes, rubbed his legs, rubbed what appeared to be Carmine’s lipstick off of his hand, and he finally threw in the towel. He didn’t know how he would drive home with half of his brain cells dead from whatever potion Pollina was brewing, but he couldn’t wait to just get back into bed and deal with the whole test thing the next day. As he looked up, he saw Crowley walking along and he finally just broke.

“Hey, Az, I stole your stapler but I’m done with it so you can -- Jesus Christ, what  _ happened  _ to you? You look awful.” Aziraphale’s throat was too raw to respond, or to say anything for that matter; instead, Aziraphale just hugged Crowley close and buried his face in Crowley’s chest. Yes, it was weird to do something like that when they had only been not-enemies for two days or so, but where else was he to turn? Aziraphale closed his weary eyes and breathed deeply in and out; tears eventually stained Crowley’s shirt.

“Uh… there there?” Crowley said, patting his back half-heartedly. “Az, I’m really starting to get worried about you. What gives?”

“It’s just been a day,” Aziraphale finally said, muffled by the fabric of Crowley’s shirt. “I’ll explain later maybe.” And with that, Aziraphale separated from Crowley and walked off to his car, leaving his briefcase and his other effects in his office to pick up sometime, far off in the future.


	6. Tough Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale thinks about his past, and Crowley drags him out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope these are coherent words! Also hope you like it

Crowley, left in a whirlwind of confusion, was unsure of what to do at first when Aziraphale stumbled off into the dusk. He cursed himself for simply letting Aziraphale go, for being so hopeless at being empathetic and helping distressed people. He didn’t know jack shit about other people’s feelings; Crowley preferred to have only one feeling, and that was being vaguely smug. But what he did know was that he wasn’t just going to wait until whenever Aziraphale came back to find out what was wrong. After all, Crowley had nothing to go off of, and Aziraphale could have  _ never  _ actually come back depending on how serious his situation was. Why did Crowley care so much about Aziraphale after knowing him for only two days? ...He didn’t, actually. He was just curious. Mysteries were meant to be solved after all, right? Shut up.

What clues would he have left, though? Who would he have talked to? First, Crowley made his way towards the coffee shop; Aziraphale loved that damn place, and despite being so new, he managed to already have a pretty good relationship with the staff and the other regulars. The people on staff at the time, therefore, knew who he was talking about, but oddly didn’t note that he was anything but his chipper, sunshiney self when he came in for his morning coffee. None of his possessions were left in the lost and found either. So, at least Crowley had a timeline. It was a whole 12-hour chunk of time where he could have gone from usual to whatever fucked up state he was in before, but hell, it was better than nothing.

Crowley’s next stop was the history building. First, he went to ask the history DAs if they’d noticed anything, but by this point the office had long since closed and the DAs had gone out to play. Though, after he turned around from there, he came upon Aziraphale’s office, door wide open, with the little stacks of paper lining every surface. Some of the papers had drifted onto the floor after being abandoned for hours on end. While it was a strange scene, it wasn’t what caught Crowley’s eye; rather, it was the fact that Aziraphale had left almost everything he owned in his office. His briefcase and papers lay open on the floor, and his phone was still on his desk next to his full wallet. Crowley sighed. Aziraphale had really lost it, hadn’t he? If only he lived in the dorms, so Crowley could track him down and return all of this. 

Then, an idea popped into Crowley’s head. It was kind of a creepy idea, sure, and Crowley would normally feel strange digging through a man’s personal effects to execute it. But he also felt odd walking out leaving all of these important things out in the open.It was lucky that they were still here after all this time; perhaps Aziraphale wouldn’t be so lucky in 12 more hours, if Crowley risked it. So, he decided to take a peek at John Francis Aziraphale’s ID, and lo and behold, there was his (hopefully current) home address. Crowley packed up all of Aziraphale’s papers and important identifying items. It was time for a road trip. 

Aziraphale, meanwhile, had managed to limp his way home after nearly falling asleep on the highway several times. Even when he’d pulled his hatchback into his parking spot, his head fell forward as he drifted off, and he only woke up because his forehead bumped the horn. And, despite all that, when he wobbled his way onto his mattress, sleep would not take him.

Crowley probably hates me now, he thought, tired hazel eyes staring at his own ceiling. Aziraphale was so clingy and touchy and  _ weird  _ with him, and then he left without explaining a single thing about why he was behaving so erratically. He wondered how he would even be able to show his face at work again. There was one good job that he had gotten, one budding friendship, and he had already managed to take those joyful things and stomp on it, over and over, until nothing was left. 

At least he didn’t hurt anyone physically like he would have as a young man. For the way she’d treated him, Carmine might have been disabled for life if Aziraphale had been 10 years younger, before she’d even done the knife and the pushing and the door-locking. He’d like to think he was better now, after realizing that he couldn’t just punch people because he wanted to, even if it was very easy for him to do it. After having remained motionless for hours, he hit himself in the head, as if doing so would liquefy the offending thoughts and make them leak from his head forever, as if it would change him into the ideal person that he so desperately wanted to be. But he couldn’t stop thinking; would things have gone better today if he had resorted to violence? Would he have done a favor for humanity if he had slammed Sable’s head into his keyboard and let him bleed there, unable to insinuate that Aziraphale and the rest of the population should starve themselves to death for his amusement? Would he feel better, more powerful? Would he be this pathetic? Before he could even register that he was doing it, Aziraphale was wrapping himself in a hug in a worthless attempt to comfort himself as he began to cry. 

Suddenly, a knock at his door broke through his obsessive thoughts. It was just Aziraphale’s luck; someone had chosen  _ now  _ to drop by. But who would it be, he thought as he leapt up and looked at his own puffy, red eyes in the mirror. He tried to smooth down his hair and splash some water in his own face, but he eventually had to face that he was not going to hide his current state no matter how much it embarrassed him. Maybe it was Tracy, his new landlord? She dropped by often, just to be nosy. However, she usually introduced herself with a very loud “Yoohoo, Johnny boy!!” before he had even opened the door, and whoever was on the other side of the door was silent save for yet another, more insistent knock.

“Coming!” he groaned, and when he cracked the door ever so slightly, he found that it wasn’t anyone that he was even remotely expecting.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and the sheer mortification started to set in. Of course it was  _ Crowley _ that had to see him like this; Aziraphale could hear God Himself laughing at his sheer misfortune. In one hand, Crowley had Aziraphale’s briefcase and all of his missing items; in the other, he had a, er… six-pack of beer? The main thing that Aziraphale noticed is that while he was at his worst, Crowley was effortlessly gorgeous as always in his leather jacket and combat boots. The humiliation of Crowley’s success made Aziraphale feel sick. 

“Good evening,” Crowley greeted.

“Evening,” Aziraphale said, collecting his thoughts. “I’m so sorry that I made you drive all the way here,” he added after a pause; Aziraphale didn’t  _ ask  _ Crowley to drive all the way here, but his profound failures made him feel obligated to do so, and that was honestly much more shameful. “Thank you for bringing back my things.” Aziraphale tried to force a polite smile, even though it wouldn’t come, and reached for his suitcase. But Crowley pulled it away just as Aziraphale’s fingertips grazed the leather surface.

“Huh -- ?” 

“I’m not going to let you just take your things and keep rotting in your flat,” Crowley said. His eyes were invisible under his dark glasses, and Aziraphale couldn’t read the emotions of the rest of his face.

“You really don’t need to stay, you’ve done enough --”

“Talk to me.” The statement was forceful, and it startled Aziraphale a bit. “Tell me what went on today.”

“You won’t believe it. You’ll think I’m pathetic. You don’t need to deal with  _ my  _ problems.”

“Very well, then.” Crowley put down the case of beer, and toyed with Aziraphale’s phone. “I guess I’ll have fun prank-calling people with this.”

“Goddamn it, you bastard, you absolute --,” Aziraphale muttered with utter desperation, voice cracking. He tensely sighed; why couldn’t Crowley just leave him alone to wither away like he wanted to?! Aziraphale let go of the door and it opened all the way, the knob making a hollow thunk on the opposing wall. “Come in,” he sighed in defeat. 

Crowley quickly passed Aziraphale in the doorway and made himself at home, setting the alcohol on the table and the rest of Aziraphale’s things on his unmade bed. He also turned on the searing fluorescent overhead lights, which ushered away Aziraphale’s comforting cocoon of darkness and made him wince in pain. 

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Crowley said, looking around at the bright white cabinetry of Aziraphale’s kitchenette. The other man mumbled out a thanks and looked away from Crowley, as if not making eye contact would mean that he could just disappear into thin air. But when he managed to open his eyes, Crowley was still there and could still see him, and he was patting the chair next to him at Aziraphale’s dining table. Like a specter in the night, like the physical manifestation of Aziraphale’s demons, Crowley sat inside this flat and would not leave until Aziraphale opened up about everything that weighed on him. And so, Aziraphale conceded, and he sat down, and he started talking. A lot.

He talked about what happened to him that day, with the terrifying Carmine and the manipulative Sable and the physically injurious Pollina and the other one that was probably running a death cult. He thought with a sick sense of humor that if he talked for long enough, he might get Crowley to give up on him and leave, but frustratingly, he stayed, intently listening to every one of Aziraphale’s words, silent but clearly absorbing it. Then, unable to stop this shaken soda bottle of feelings, he went into the past that he was running from, the past before AUL, because fuck it, Crowley was still here, right? He could handle it, and Aziraphale certainly couldn’t handle it alone anymore. He talked about the promising boxing career that he had right out of high school, and then how he ruined it by using his strength in a job as a goon in a criminal gang, breaking the legs of those who defaulted on their payments as an outlet for his own unaddressed anger. He talked about how he only stopped when one of his victims died in a fire; they couldn’t escape the building after being knocked unconscious by guess who? It was a life that he had never revealed to everyone, desperately trying to push it down and pretend that it never happened, especially when the police started to investigate it all. Aziraphale was crying by the end of it; why was he doing this to himself, to Crowley? When Crowley finally arose after hearing all this, Aziraphale just assumed that that was the tipping point to where he finally had to go.

“Let’s go for a drive.” Crowley took the alcohol, and with the other hand, he reached out to Aziraphale. Gently, tentatively, like a cornered dog learning to trust, Aziraphale looked up at Crowley and took his hand. He kept a hold of Crowley’s hand and locked the door with the other. As they walked down the hall and stairs to Crowley’s car outside, the gray walls and mahogany carpets blurred in Aziraphale’s vision. It was all familiar, anyway. What wasn’t familiar was Crowley’s hand in his, or anyone’s hand in his for that matter, and Aziraphale couldn’t stop staring at it. It was like a beautiful mirage, and he would have discounted it as unreal if it were not for the fact that he could feel Crowley’s touch, so electrifying, so foreign, so perfect. He couldn’t help but grip tighter, he never wanted to let go -- 

“Oi! Earth to Aziraphale!” Oh. They were outside Crowley’s car already, and once he looked around, he could see that he had missed quite a bit. Crowley’s car was not an average car. It had black leather and mahogany wood interior, and the wheel was absolutely massive. Aziraphale couldn’t help but look at the car’s unique lines and retro squared-off shapes. It was nothing like the homogenous, frankly boring car designs of today; it was a piece of art, and it had the old-school charm of a --

“1930’s Bentley?” Aziraphale prodded. 

“‘36,” Crowley said with a proud smirk. 

“How do you keep her so pristine?” When Crowley unlocked the doors, Aziraphale got in the car, soaking in every detail now that he was snapped out of his reverie from before. 

“Stabbing anyone that goes near her,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but giggle. “And also regular maintenance, I guess,” he added with a shrug. Leaning over to look up at the black suede roof, Aziraphale felt himself transported back to a long-gone era, something that soothed him as a history major. Mostly everything was as it would be in that time, or at least very closely replaced; every dial, every crank, both the seat that he was sitting in and the seat next to it that Aziraphale was clinging to -- wait no that was Crowley.

“Enjoying yourself?” Crowley said with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Aziraphale blushed bright red and leaned back into his own seat; he would have to pay attention to where his hands went.

“Dgnrhgsjhfmph…” Aziraphale muttered ever so coherently. At least Crowley seemed more confident as he drove off into the night. 


	7. Accident Waiting to Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale goes on a drive with Crowley, Newton Pulsifer tries to fix the new professor's email, and Aziraphale gets a message from his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA I lived bitch! I had writer's block for a long while there but I am F R E E (as long as I'm not crushed by my schoolwork that is). Hope you enjoy this new chapter!

“I knew at least some of those little bastards would be using Wikipedia.”

“Who hasn’t tried to at least once, if you’re a freshman just trying to get something in on a deadline? That’s sort of --” Aziraphale hiccuped. “-- normal.”

“Oh, of course, except I thought of anything they might look up and I went in and  _ edited the Wikipedia pages. _ ” This time, Aziraphale gasped.

“Oh nooooooo...”

“A good third of them came in with essays about Shakespeare’s anal fetish.” Aziraphale nearly spat up his beer, quivering with the kind of potent laughter so powerful that it’s almost on into seizure territory. Yes, he was a bit drunk, so everything was funnier than usual, but it was just Crowley’s brand of teaching and Aziraphale adored it. Aziraphale finished off the last can of sweet, sweet alcohol and put it into the box with the rest of its empty brethren. Unlike Aziraphale’s car, Crowley’s beautiful young lass had no console in the middle, and therefore Aziraphale could keel over like a loopy giggling ragdoll right into Crowley’s lap.

Of course, once Aziraphale left the safety of Crowley and his car, he would feel weird about having sprawled across his fancy, pristine car like a public nuisance; maybe he could just stay in Crowley’s car forever and never have to go back to the real world where he felt so ashamed and so weak. He could just roll over and hug onto Crowley and shove his face into Crowley’s stomach and sleep there like a drunken little toddler forever.

From the open windows, a group of crickets could be heard chirping their monotone song. The stars glittered above and in the dense cover of the woods, nothing would find them, not even the light of the city. Crowley looked down and swept a tuft of white hair out of Aziraphale’s face. Seems like he was… dead asleep, if his soft, peaceful breathing and closed eyes was anything to go by. 

Crowley lifted up his shades and looked even closer at Aziraphale with naked eyes. His gaze followed the path of nearly every curl on his head. Aziraphale’s eyelashes fluttered against his own cheeks; he was dreaming something nice, no doubt. God, the man practically glowed like an angel. Crowley reached out, smiling a little bit, but he stopped and his face and his sunglasses quickly fell again. He shook his head, and poked Aziraphale in the shoulder.

“Az.” The gentle rhythm of the man’s snores interrupted for a moment. “Az.” Nothing. “Aziraphale.” With another poke, Aziraphale mumbled himself awake.

“Aziraphale, I can’t drive you home with you on my lap.”

“Then don’t drive,” Aziraphale giggled, still absolutely blitzed and blushing. “We can just live in your car out here forever.” Crowley stopped as if seriously considering it for half a second. Then, he put his hands underneath Aziraphale’s shoulder and pushed him up.

“Come on, get up ya big lug. Yip yip.”

“Nooooooo…” Aziraphale laughed more but eventually leaned on the door of Crowley’s car. After some struggling with shaky hands, he managed to buckle his seatbelt and once he did, Crowley threw the car in reverse and drove out of their forest sanctuary. 

When they got back to Aziraphale’s flat, neither man got out of the car immediately. For a while, they sat in complete silence together in the wonderful environment that they had created. Just as Crowley opened the door, Aziraphale pulled him back and wrapped him in another hug from behind.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, with a soft smile as opposed to the elated giggling of before. “You’re so kind to me, and even though it hurt to get out of my flat at first, I’m glad that I spent the night with you.” Crowley just froze up in his arms though, and since Aziraphale could just see the back of Crowley’s head, he couldn’t know why.

“Of course,” Crowley muttered. “Have a good night.” 

And like a ghost, Crowley carried the stumbling Aziraphale back up to his apartment, laying him back onto his bed, covering his floppy body in his own sheets, disappearing into the fog of the dead night.

Aziraphale woke up with a blistering headache, and very quickly all of the built-up regrets of last night dawned on him again. First of all, he regretted knocking back a few cold ones dehydrated and on an empty stomach, especially when sitting up felt like being slapped directly in the brain stem. But after that very physical reminder, the mental reminders came back, of Aziraphale clinging to Crowley like a big filthy toddler, of him burying his face into Crowley’s stomach, of getting into Crowley’s beautiful antique car and probably slobbering and stepping all over it, and Aziraphale remembered it all no matter how passionately he crammed his own face into his own pillow. He had gotten very deep sleep last night, so he had more energy to be thoroughly ashamed of himself instead of just “weird” like he’d hypothesized before. But in an act of defiance, he threw his pillow straight across the room onto the floor. Why was he so ashamed when it was Crowley had the idea, the  _ gall  _ to break into his home while he was distressed and not leave until Aziraphale opened up and revealed everything about himself  _ when they had only known each other for a matter of days -- _

And then, with another shocking revelation, Aziraphale froze up, breath laying stagnant in his lungs. 

He had told Crowley about the fire.

No one knew about the fire.  _ The police  _ didn’t even know about the fire, at least not Aziraphale’s involvement in it. But now, since Aziraphale had opened up like Crowley had wanted, he would likely be going to prison for the rest of his life. Did he deserve it? He had killed someone, or at least he was quite sure that he had. Their spirit certainly haunted him in his nightmares, begging to be saved from the fate that they had met. But did he  _ want  _ to go to jail, after having put in the effort to distance himself from his past and right what was wrong with those whom he had harmed?

Aziraphale looked around his own room like a cornered rat, stomach flipping and squirming in his abdominal cavity, and he was faced with two options:

  1. Corner Crowley in an alley where they would not be seen. Shove him against a wall by his neck and use his own superior strength to threaten him into silence. Crack open his skull if he even thought of going to law enforcement. It would be so easy; Crowley was built like a toothpick. His skull couldn’t be that thick. The idea was repulsive, though; it was what the old Aziraphale would revert to, and an unseen part of him found it even more repugnant to do that to Crowley in particular. 
  2. Turn himself in to the police. After all, Aziraphale knew that he was guilty, and maybe rotting in jail for the rest of his life would give some peace to his own bloody soul, and to the one that had died in the fire, since those were the two people he was never able to bring justice no matter how hard he had tried. But Aziraphale thought of a third idea, one so absurd that it made him burst out into laughter for a second.
  3. Just like… ignore it! Don’t bring it up again. Aziraphale was drunken and delirious that night; he couldn’t be trusted to provide a reliable account of what happened. Plus, even if he had said something that incriminated him, he was a big old dummy dumb idiot drunkard that didn’t know what he’d even said last night! Oh Aziraphale, you’re such a character! Ha ha ha! Maybe, Aziraphale thought, if he doesn’t bring it up again and make people think he contributed to the death of an innocent person, Crowley will just like… forget. He’ll write it off as a joke, maybe, the ramblings of a mind under the influence. 



And that was the option that Aziraphale decided to go with. He put himself together as quickly as he could and rushed into his classroom five minutes late for the start of his class. Despite his inner demons, Aziraphale slid into his role as history professor remarkably well, having yet another uneventful lecture like the last one. Afterwards, he even gained the impetus to go to IT about his email account. It was much better to feel like a stupid old man than a killer. 

Standing at a little enclave in the computer science building, Aziraphale stood behind a little ledge and watched a bespectacled man at a desk tap things into a computer. His name was Newton Pulsifer, according to his name tag, and he really didn’t seem like  _ that  _ bad of a person, was he, for his parents to have given him a name like that? 

“Alright, Dr. Aziraphale,” he stuttered out, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether his name was tripping Newton up or whether he just spoke like that as a matter of course. “May I see your faculty ID please, just to confirm that the account is yours?”

“Certainly,” Aziraphale said, sliding his shiny new laminated ID card across the table, and in trying to pick it up, Newton immediately managed to fling it accidentally into a nearby shredder, causing half of the card to disintegrate in between the blades before the shredder itself stopped and began to smoke. The event was so sudden and yet Newton could see every frame of the event in slow motion. Truly, it was a work of art, John Aziraphale’s smiling face sticking half-destroyed out of a smoking shredder, and both he and Newton stared at the spectacle with a rigid silence. Newton opened his mouth a couple of times to speak, but closed it when the words wouldn’t leave.

“I will…” Newton took in a deep breath, then exhaled. “I will order you a new one of, er, those, once I get your email straightened out.” Aziraphale wasn’t mad; he mainly just felt sad for poor Newton, both because of his terrible name and because he knew this wasn’t even remotely the first time that the boy had done something like this. Newton focused on typing at his computer. 

“Alright, almost done resetting the password for your email, Dr. Aziraphale, all I need to do is --” Suddenly, an error sound erupted from the speakers of Newton’s desktop, and he froze once again, staring at his screen with wide eyes and a locked jaw. 

“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asked, unable to see Newton’s screen.

“Nope, everything is perfectly fine,” Newton said, while frantically typing and sweating up a storm. “This is all part of the procedure for locked accounts. Ha ha!” More error sounds. Then, Newton was just mashing one button, another disapproving gong cutting itself off over and over again with every press. Aziraphale could almost hear the screaming inside Newton’s mind.

“Newton, what did you do to the email servers?” a voice called from behind a shelf full of wires and company computers.

“Nothing! I’m fixing it!” Newton called back, while his computer emitted a ghastly glitching noise and then seemingly shut off out of second-hand embarrassment. He took his hands off the keyboard and looked back at Aziraphale, obviously not having fixed his dumpster fire but averting his eyes from it in the spirit of customer service.

“Well, Dr. Aziraphale, how about we give you the new email ‘aziraphale@aul.edu?’” Newton asked.

“What happened to my old email…?” Aziraphale asked in turn, almost afraid to do so.

“Eh, it was… uuuuuuuuh, not set up correctly in the first place! It was probably a boring email anyway.” Newton was already scrawling a new username and password on a sticky note. “Everything from the old email will be forwarded to the new one. Just give us until end of business today, and you should be able to log in with these credentials.”

“What about my ID?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Oh, yes, that! I will, er --” Newton looked back at his dead computer and trailed off. “You know what, these little buggers are actually incredibly resilient.” He took Aziraphale’s half-eaten card out of the shredder and set it on the table, with its fringed bottom edge and all. “See, the magnetic slidey bit is still intact, so you should still be able to use it wherever it’s needed. If you cannot, please contact someone else.” Before Aziraphale could respond, Newton was gone, presumably panicking in the staff lounge. He decided to give the poor boy some mercy and just go back to his office with his shredded ID card and his arguably less functional email account. 

When Aziraphale arrived at his office after the ordeal from yesterday, everything was largely in place, save for some papers on the floor that were easily righted back to their stacks. But when he finally completed his work, he found an extra piece of paper placed square in the middle of his desk. 

“Huh, I was sure that I had put everything back…” And indeed, Aziraphale  _ had  _ put everything back. When Aziraphale picked up the paper and read the blotchy, still-wet red pen, he found the message to be far from academic.

_ “I know what you did.  _ You  _ know what you did. See you in hell, John Aziraphale.” _


	8. Disciplinary Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finally brings up his concerns with Carmine, Dr. Sable, Pollina and the note to administration, and Crowley says too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA y'all get a second big boi chapter today because I can't stop myself! 200 degrees that's why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit babie! Let me know if it's incomprehensible garbage because it is very late and I am very sleepy; otherwise, hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S In this universe Michael is actually Dr. Michael but her first name is also Michael. Michael Michael. I'm delirious

Aziraphale quickly carried a slice of banana bread and an Earl Grey throughout the coffee shop, his briefcase loosely slung in his elbow. His footsteps carried him to Crowley, seated alone at a table, and he slid into the empty chair across from him. 

“No lunch today?” Crowley asked around a bite of a sandwich. Aziraphale opened his bag on his lap and began to rummage through it. 

“My stomach’s turned,” Aziraphale grunted out. 

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have had so much last night, then,” Crowley chuckled. Aziraphale was not in the mood for jokes. “Hey, what’s wro --” 

“Do you think you’re being clever with this shit, Crowley?” Aziraphale pulled out the threat and practically waved it in his face, a venomous whisper. Crowley squinted at the paper, genuinely taken aback.

“W-Wha --” 

“Why would you put something like this on my desk? I was in a vulnerable position last night, and now you  _ dare  _ to try and torment me and blackmail me with the information, which by the way you only have a drunken man’s rambling for evidence and there’s no way you can prove.” Crowley’s head seemed to be shaking slightly; Aziraphale thought that it was denial, but quickly realized that Crowley was trying to read it. “What do you have to say for yourself?!”

“Please don’t tear me in half,” Crowley whispered, flinching. “I know you’re very upset, but let’s talk about this.”

“What could we possibly have to talk about?” 

“What we have to talk about is, why  _ would  _ I place that on your desk?”

“You’re trying to distract me.”

“No, goddamnit, think about it, Az. Why  _ would  _ I? With a note like that and with what happened last night, I’m obviously the first person you’d think of to have written it. The fact that we’re having this conversation right now proves that point, yes?”

“Yes?”

“And I would have to know that fact going in, making the whole point of tormenting you from afar completely meaningless. You know who I am, Az, and you can very easily snap me in half like I know you’re thinking of doing right now. But if I genuinely hated you, I’d just get you jailed, and if I did that, you’d be in police custody right now. But you’re not because believe me, I have worse secrets to keep.” Aziraphale sighed and put the note down.

“Damn it, you’re right.” Aziraphale took in a deep breath and nervously shoved the entire slice of banana bread in his mouth. 

“... You ate that like a snake --”

“Shush, you. I’m stress eating.” He took a swig of tea to wash it down. “If you didn’t write the note, that means someone else must know. But who? They would have had to be in my apartment to even  _ know… _ ” Crowley shrugged. 

“Do you have any roommates that might have come home early?” Crowley suggested.

“No, I live alone, I  _ think _ ,” Aziraphale muttered, his own eyes now fixed on the note. He channeled the powers of the handwriting analysts on every late night true crime show that he’d ever watched, but unfortunately that wasn’t leading anywhere. The uneven strokes and red ink just mocked him. He stared at the paper so long that his eyes began to cross and his vision glazed over. Eventually, Crowley just took the paper out of his hands with a sigh, laying it face down on the table. 

“I think you’ve gathered all you’re going to from that.”

“I know… I’m just going to go to the head office about it, see if they can do anything. It’s not like I’ve not got a laundry list of complaints already.” Aziraphale pushed himself to stand. “I should probably do that right now.”

“You want me to walk you over?” Aziraphale felt a strange fullness in his chest at that. He felt compelled to politely decline because it was something nice, and so Aziraphale  _ had  _ to decline it at first, but he found himself relieved when Crowley insisted. He wanted to wrap Crowley in a hug like he did last night, or at least take his hand, but that was unprofessional and might give people the wrong impression. Instead, he settled for walking beside his friend as they made their way out of the building. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale could spot a table outdoors, with a group of friends and their puppy gathered around it. How lovely, Aziraphale thought for a split second, until he saw their faces. He saw Pollina and Dr. Sable having a conversation while Carmine fed a treat to Dr. Declan’s dog, who sat just watching with his cane. Seeing them all together in one place brought back horrible memories of yesterday, and so he jerked his head away to focus on the much more calming Crowley. It was entirely possible that he would catch those people on better days and they would make better memories together, but the administration did need to know the questionable nature of the things that had happened to him. 

Out of curiosity, fear, something that Aziraphale definitely regretted, Aziraphale took one last glance at the group. Now, all of them were glaring back at him, faces austere and unmoving. The friendly conversation had stopped in exchange for those gazes that burned and scratched at his skin. Aziraphale felt compelled to get away just a bit faster; hopefully trying to report them wouldn’t turn out to be a bad idea in the long term.

Gabriel sat at his desk, humming in thought.

“So you’re accusing Dr. Sable of harming his research participants and directly insulting you, Dr. Warren of assaulting you and keeping a weapon on school grounds,  _ and _ Dr. Weiss of using unsafe lab practices around dangerous chemicals?” Michael looked down at him and raised a perfectly drawn eyebrow, frowning slightly. 

“Yes, in blunt terms,” Aziraphale said, trying not to look away from Michael so as to look as honest as possible. This situation certainly didn’t help his anxiety, and her glaring at him like he was the guilty one only compounded the problem. He took a deep breath, trying to remain inconspicuous. He knew that he was in the right to report this, and somehow, knowing that Crowley was right outside made him feel better. “And that isn’t all. I found this threatening note on my desk this morning.” Aziraphale took the now-slightly-crunched note out of his briefcase and slid it across the table to Gabriel and Michael. With her face still long and suspicious, Michael grabbed tortoiseshell-rimmed reading glasses to see the print more clearly. 

“You say you found this on your desk this morning, Dr. Aziraphale?” Michael droned.

“Yes, madam,” Aziraphale answered, with as much respect and formality as his nervous body could muster.

“Seems suspicious.” Was she seriously going to try and say that he wrote this note himself?

“Oh, this is in that pen that Carmine always uses,” Gabriel said, finally speaking up as he had an epiphany. “And this is her handwriting too.” There was no way that Aziraphale could be surprised at this point. He was just so glad that this time someone at the top believed what he was saying. At this, Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief.

“I think Carmine’s still on campus. Let’s call her and get this whole mess straightened out. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this.” Gabriel clapped in agreement with his own idea, and Aziraphale jumped. Were these people not concerned with Carmine throwing him under the bus, or worse, hunting him down and harassing him after the meeting?!

“Wonderful, sir. I shall give her a call.” Michael picked up the phone and dialed her office while Aziraphale was overcome with a whole new wave of nerves.

Soon, Carmine was sauntering through the door, dress and heels shocking red per usual. She looked down at Aziraphale with long black lashes, then at Gabriel and Michael.

“Dr. Warren. Please, take a seat.” Michael was frighteningly robotic as she gestured to the chair next to Aziraphale. Leisurely, Carmine sat down, crossing her legs and wrapping her long red nails over the edges of the armrests. Aziraphale envied how she was able to be so calm when she was the one being interrogated. 

“Glad to see you both! You said there was something that you needed to talk to me about?”

“We were just confused about this note that Aziraphale here found on his desk, and we were wondering if you had anything to do with it.” Gabriel passed the note over to Carmine, who opened her mouth in a surprised smile as she read it. She stayed in this expression for a bit, blinking a couple of times before speaking.

“Oh, my goodness.  _ This  _ is what this is about? Dude, I am so sorry, I really shouldn’t have put this on your desk without context.” Carmine put her hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

Don’t you “dude” me, Aziraphale thought, but did not say.

“Okay, you were in line in front of me at the coffee shop the other day,” Carmine explained. “And you got the last one of those cute little cake pops with the cat ears on them, and I was like ‘Grrrrr!” behind you because I’m on a diet and those are the only sweet things I can eat without completely blowing it! So I left that note on your desk because, you know, I really wanted that and I was really pissed in the moment, but now I’m realizing that you probably didn’t even know that it was the last one, and you totally would have given it up if you had known that I’d wanted it! Ugh, I really should have thought that prank through better…” She laughed it away, and to Aziraphale’s frustration, Gabriel and Michael laughed it away too; well, Michael laughed it away as much as she was physically capable of laughter, which Aziraphale imagined was not a very high level. 

“Oh, great, it’s settled then,” Gabriel said. “Just some harmless jabs at the new guy over cake pops. Classic Carmine. You’re fine with it now that you know that, right, Aziraphale?” In actuality, Aziraphale was  _ not  _ fine with it, not in the slightest. “It was just a joke” was the cop-out excuse that jerks used to justify their insensitive actions when they got caught, and besides, nothing about Carmine’s note read as being remotely funny. And what about the events of yesterday?! Everyone seemed to have just forgotten that discussion once Carmine walked in the room. But Aziraphale could not articulate these thoughts in a business-appropriate manner fast enough, and so Gabriel took his silence as compliance. 

“Wonderful, Dr. Warren. We would expect no ill will from someone of your seniority at this university. You are free to go,” said Michael, and Carmine waltzed out with a fake smile and a charming wave. Aziraphale had been scared to be in the room with her, but now he was disappointed to be there and see her get only a slap on the wrist. It was almost like she was getting lauded for harassing him, and they were in on some sick joke where he was the punchline. But that wasn’t a professional thought, so it had to stay hidden. 

“Well, that clears up the misunderstanding with Carmine. Happy to make sure that was a moderated discussion.” Aziraphale got the feeling that Gabriel was being sarcastic, and the actual meaning of that sentence was “You’re such a spineless jackass for making me babysit you through what should have been a private conversation.” “As for Dr. Sable and. Dr. Weiss, we will investigate them too, but we won’t keep you any longer for it. Good day!” Gabriel waved Aziraphale away, and at that point, he had no choice but to respectfully shake both of their hands and go. 

“How’d it go?” Crowley asked, kicking his feet and arising from his seat outside some random office. Aziraphale shrugged; he felt like it should have gone well since he found out who wrote the note. However, he also felt like the goal during that meeting was to get him out of the office as quickly as possible, not to find any kind of justice, and once they had made their way out into the expansive paths of AUL, he told Crowley as much. 

“Ah, fuck, I was hoping they’d like you because you’re cute,” Crowley said.

“What does that mean?” Aziraphale said, quickly turning his head towards Crowley. 

“Well, I’m sure you found out that upper management doesn’t exactly make their decisions based on what’s actually ethical.”

“No --” Aziraphale realized that was probably what he should have meant, even though it wasn’t. “What does it mean when you say that I’m ‘cute?’” 

“Huh?”

“Well, you just said it now, and you said it when we still hated each other’s guts! You were all, ‘Oh, you’d better be glad you’re so cute, you’d be a lot worse off if you weren’t!’ What do you mean when you say that?”

At that question, Crowley stammered nervously for a bit before speaking; he wasn’t even like that when Aziraphale was accusing him of blackmail, so what was so bad about this question? It intrigued Aziraphale even more to see Crowley lose his cool composure for a bit.

“Well, er, uh, well, look at you!!” Crowley gestured wildly towards Aziraphale. “Do you even look in a mirror when you dress yourself? You always come to work in these cute little dress shirts with your cute little vest and bowtie and your khaki slacks and your sensible old man loafers!” 

“Am I really a cute little old man for liking comfortable shoes?” Aziraphale muttered under his breath. 

“A-and your demeanor is so cute partially because you say hi to frickin’ everyone! You say hi to the people at the coffee shop, to the couple walking their dog, to every single student of yours that walks by, to Gabriel and Michael even though they objectively don’t deserve that kind of treatment from you! You’ll say hi to people you’ve never met before and you’ll skip along while you do it! You’re filled with so much wholesome bullshit!” Aziraphale started to blush. A feeling filled him that was so old and unused that Aziraphale couldn’t identify it.

“And your face!” Aziraphale squeaked and blushed deeper when Crowley grabbed his face in both hands. “You’ve got the bluest eyes and the roundest little face I’ve ever seen and it’s almost always smiling!” Aziraphale couldn’t even respond because his heart was beating so quickly in his chest for a reason that he couldn’t even pin down, frustratingly. His flustered mood must have been clear on his face, because Crowley quickly pulled away and cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s what I mean. As long as you don’t introduce yourself with ‘’Ello mate, your handshake is weak and I don’t like you’, it’s damn near impossible to hate you.” 

“Oh, well when you put it that way, I guess I see what you mean.” Aziraphale had curated a very G-rated appearance for himself, and he guessed that that could be described as “cute”. It was especially cute when he was placed next to Crowley, who had very sharp features and seemed to be allergic to any color that wasn’t black.

“Good. Now let’s go to the coffee shop; you look like you need a biscuit or something, and I need to tell you about the bar we’re going to on Friday night!” 

“Huh?? The bar we’re going to? You never told me about this!” 

“Exactly! That’s why I need to tell you about it now.”

“But you’re already acting like we have this scheduled!”  
“Did you have plans for Friday night?”

“W-Well, I probably have assignments to grade, and powerpoints to --”

“Exactly; nothing. I bet you haven’t even celebrated getting hired here, have you?”

“Of course I have!!” 

“No, no, eating an entire pint of ice cream with wine alone in your flat doesn’t count. I mean an _ actual _ celebration. You know, with friends?” 

“Perfectly good celebrations can be had alone, thank you very much.” Aziraphale huffed. “Also, bars are not my scene, and I’m still in the process of making any friends that I would invite.”

“Oh come now, you’ll have lots of fun! I’ll invite  _ my _ friends. They’ll take any excuse to drink and they’d love to meet you. Plus, it’s karaoke night! How could you possibly miss karaoke night?”

“Well, I guess worst case scenario, I can have a good pint with good people,” Aziraphale mumbled, mulling over the decision even though the conservative part of his brain was screaming that it was a terrible idea. 

“Exactly! Alcohol fixes everything. Hopefully it won’t come to that, but hey, it’s always good to have a backup plan.” Crowley examined Aziraphale’s shirt collar, taking the fabric in between his fingers. “I can also help you pick out an outfit, if you need.”

“What’s wrong with this one?” Aziraphale asked.

“‘What’s wrong with this one?’” Crowley repeated. “What’s wrong with going for drinks in the same outfit that you go to work in? Jesus Christ, you really do need my help. I’ll be over at 5:30; make sure that this isn’t the only thing you have in your closet. I’ll stab you if it is.” Crowley paused. “You know what, what size are you?” Aziraphale flinched when he suddenly felt Crowley’s fingers on the back of his neck, flipping the tag of his shirt up. “Oh, okay, I might have some things that fit you. I’m sure you’ll look dashing in them. I’ll bring them with me on Friday.” Crowley tugged his shirt tag back in and patted him on the back, escorting him to the door of the coffee shop. Aziraphale felt nervous for Friday -- he had become quite the homebody, and he hadn’t been to anything resembling a bar for a very long time. But he also felt too excited to turn down Crowley’s offer. After all, amazing things happened in bars, as with copious amounts of alcohol came endless possibilities. He just had to keep his head screwed on straight, not get into any fights, and have fun. That was easy enough, right?

“Oh. My. Goodness! Crowley! And Aziraphale!” Of course, his daydreaming was interrupted by an all-too-familiar voice and an overpowering perfume that managed to be bright red like the rest of her. “How are you two doing?” Like always, Carmine had gotten too close. He felt a hand wrap around his waist, but instead of Carmine’s like he’d expected, it was Crowley’s. As for Crowley, he didn’t even seem to be aware that he was doing it, as his eyes were watching Carmine closely. 

“We’re doing fine, Carmine,” Crowley answered, cold like when Aziraphale first met him. “Just running in to get some coffee.”   
“I didn’t know you two were friends! What is a cool guy like you hanging out with this loser?” Aziraphale shut his eyes tightly in discomfort as Carmine ruffled his white hair, her hand pressing hard into his skull. The way she said it was in that same “You can’t touch me because you know I’m joking” tone from the meeting. Crowley seemed to be set on edge by it, based on the way that his hand gripped Aziraphale’s side tighter. “Ooh, more than friends~? Are you two a thing now?” 

“No.” Crowley quickly moved his hand away, not wanting to give this woman any more ammunition to stay and chat. 

“Suuuuuure, whatever you say!” Carmine said, jabbing Crowley in the non-Aziraphale side with her elbow. “By the way, Aziraphale. I really am sooo sorry about the whole note thing. That was really an awful prank. I should have made that clearer, huh?” She placed a hand on Aziraphale’s chest, causing him to jolt, and she stared deeply into his eyes. “After all, a man like you would never be going to hell for the things that he’s done --” She tilted her head and her voice deepened, though her eyes were still locked on him. “Right, John?”

Before Aziraphale or Crowley could respond to that, she was gone as quickly as she had arrived.


	9. Aziraphale and Crowley Get Suspicous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People around Aziraphale and Crowley are beginning to question their relationship, for good or for bad.

“So. She does know.” Aziraphale stared into his tea and his reflection looked back up at him, warping and refracting as he breathed into the cup. He had already scarfed down two brownies and was more than ready to get a third one just to try and calm himself down. “But how?! We didn’t have our conversation on campus, or anywhere that Carmine would have been!’

“Maybe she still doesn’t know about it, and she’s just messing with your head.” Crowley leaned back with his arms crossed in his chair, the two back legs leaned of it precariously on their corners.

“If she’s trying to toy with me psychologically, then it’s working,” Aziraphale grumbled. “I don’t know, just with the way she looked at me, she knows something that she shouldn’t. Why else would she be targeting me like this?”

“Well, she’s not exactly a  _ nice  _ person, as for you specifically I don’t know --” Whatever Crowley said didn’t matter at this point, because Aziraphale had already dug himself into a rabbit hole.

“Does she know where I live? Did she follow me home?! I wouldn’t be surprised if she were stalking me at this point.”

“Az, you’re jumping to conclusions --”

“By the time I prove it, I might be dead!”

“Aziraphale!” Out of instinct, or panic, or whatever was running through Crowley’s head at the moment, he laid his long, slender hand on top of Aziraphale’s. The other man jolted from the warmth of his hand and the surprise of being so suddenly touched, nearly knocking over his tea in the process. “Oh, shite, sorry.” Crowley pulled his hand back to rest nearer to himself.

“No, no, it’s okay!” Aziraphale sputtered. “I mean, I  _ am  _ having trouble staying grounded with all this.” He sighed, knowing that asking what he really wanted to would be a bad idea. Still, he was already sure that his days were numbered. “Would you mind if I held yours, in a platonic sense?”

Without answering verbally, Crowley paused for a moment, then slid his hand back across the table, eyes suddenly focused firmly on some point on the floor. Tentatively, Aziraphale laid his own hand on top of Crowley’s, squeezing gently. Crowley’s hands were a bit bony, but not in a way that made them any worse to look at; they simply contrasted against Aziraphale’s own, which were a little bit… well, stubbier, and a lot less pretty than Crowley’s. Aziraphale wrapped his entire hand around Crowley’s with no problem, and he had to admit that it was comforting to know that someone was there for him, in the flesh. 

“Anyway,” Aziraphale started muttering again. “Assuming Carmine does know where I live and is stalking me home, we wouldn’t be able to go to the police about it because it’s connected to, well,  _ that _ \--”

“Plus the pigs are right rubbish at their jobs anyway,” Crowley grunted.

“And going to Gabriel isn’t an option for the same reason.”

“And he’s rubbish at  _ his _ job too.”

“And seems to have quite the affinity for Carmine, even if he weren’t. So, basically I have no one. I have no one, and Carmine has at least one weapon, and if she comes and tries to hurt me, I have no options for recourse other than doing something horrible --”

“Azzie I love you but I think you’re dislocating something!” Crowley suddenly spurted out all within a half of a second. When Aziraphale looked towards his hand in Crowley’s, he found that he was now subconsciously gripping Crowley’s four fingers until they were trembling and purplish at the fingertips.

“Oh my God!” Aziraphale yanked his hand away and Crowley was able to shake some feeling back into it. “Crowley, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you --”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, nothing’s broken,” Crowley said, eyes shut tight. “I think.  _ Jesus _ .”

“I would think that I wouldn’t be able to do that after neglecting exercise for so long…” Aziraphale looked at his own hands, the guilt forming a sinking pit in his stomach. But continuously saying sorry wouldn’t help Crowley any, and so he resisted the urge to do just that. 

“Anyway, I don’t think sitting here will help me,” Aziraphale said. “I think I’m going to drive home for the day.” On autopilot already, he packed all of his things into his briefcase without much regard for where they ended up.

“Oh, I think my car’s parked over there too. I’ll walk you back.” Aziraphale tried to hide it, but hearing that made him smile, even if he didn’t quite grasp why. Crowley got up and, without thinking, Aziraphale grabbed his hand again. His grip was tight as if he was afraid that Crowley would walk away and never return, but at least it didn’t hurt him like last time. It was just enough to let Crowley know that he couldn’t leave, even if Aziraphale didn’t even know he would or could feel that way. They walked across campus like that, their hands swinging between them. Aziraphale only even realized that he was holding Crowley’s hand when he tried to get into his driver’s side seat and he had a man on his lap, looking around his car. With a gulp, Aziraphale let go, hoping that Crowley just wouldn’t notice, as he hoped with almost everything he did.

“Are you planning on following me home, Crowley?” Aziraphale said, unsure about how he felt in this situation. 

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t leave my car here overnight.” Crowley kept looking around, opening the console. 

“Then what  _ are _ you doing?”

“Snooping. Being nosy. Getting into trouble. Ooh, Lady Gaga?” Aziraphale turned bright red as Crowley picked up the “Born This Way” CD, flipping it around in his hands. “I didn’t think you were that type of man, but I’m not one to judge.”

“I’m, er, holding onto that for someone else,” Aziraphale mumbled out with one arm flailing towards the disk. “It’s not mine. Put it down!” 

“Really?” Crowley purred, as if it was pathetic for Aziraphale to even use that excuse.

“Put a sock in it,” Aziraphale said, sweating like a sinner in church, and not just over the CD. 

“I wonder if there are any other secrets in your back seat. Ones that totally aren’t yours, of course.” Crowley turned around until he was practically straddling Aziraphale, peeking over into his admittedly-cluttered back seat. But Aziraphale’s mind was too preoccupied to worry about housekeeping. After all, his face was shoved directly into Crowley’s chest due to their positioning. He remembered how comforted he felt when he had his face buried in Crowley the last time; now, though, he wasn’t completely blitzed, so he actually had to figure out what about this was giving him such butterflies and why, and how to smash those butterflies into bits. However, as one part of his brain tried to psychoanalyze himself, the other part was suppressing all emotion so he could actually look like a functioning person in front of Crowley, who was  _ literally on top of him right now, they were so close, he couldn’t breathe -- _

“Aziraphale?” He didn’t realize he had his eyes shut so tightly until he opened them again. Crowley was sitting back with his weight towards Aziraphale’s knees, wearing a smirk that made Aziraphale think he really was looking for trouble. He couldn’t help but be reminded of Carmine, with the expression, with how close they were, with how he felt like he was a puzzle that Crowley was one move away from completing, but unlike with Carmine, Aziraphale didn’t feel the need to escape. He could just stay there and close his eyes as Crowley leaned in and --

“Fuck!” With a loud screech outside, both men were being knocked forward by a powerful force. Aziraphale’s body slammed into Crowley’s, and Crowley folded and crunched in the space underneath the glove box like a broken umbrella. Aziraphale had the wind knocked out of him, so much so that his head spun as he stumbled out of his car to check what had happened.

“Oh, Aziraphale, poor buddy!” As soon as he opened his eyes, he saw a shiny silver luxury car with its back bumper crunched into that of his poor yellow hatchback. He shook his head and looked up to see the towering figure of Gabriel, in the same pressed gray suit that he always wore. He was strangely unrumpled, and he was smiling far too much for someone that just backed into someone else in the parking lot. “You alright?” He was jolted when Gabriel slammed a hand into his back, in what he assumed was meant to be a friendly gesture. 

“I’m knocked around a bit, but I don’t think that I broke anything important,” Aziraphale said, trying to straighten himself up and be professional. 

“Mmm, that’s good, that’s good,” Gabriel muttered as he circled around to check the site of impact. “Doesn’t seem to be too much damage to either car either.” Aziraphale followed, and the blood drained from his face. There wasn’t too much damage to  _ Gabriel’s  _ car, since it had a chrome-plated shelf for a bumper that seemed to be made for denting inferior models. Aziraphale’s car, on the other hand, had a whole corner bent in; such was modern engineering, where the outside crumpled while the passenger area remained intact. Still, the sight wasn’t pretty, and Aziraphale seriously questioned Gabriel’s judgement in not appraising it as “too much damage”. 

“Luckily,” Aziraphale said, hiding his frustration because Gabriel was still his boss. 

“Indeed. Now. We don’t need to take this to any government agencies, do we? We’ll keep this hush.” Getting more serious, Aziraphale’s eyes widened slightly as Gabriel took £300 out of his wallet. “I believe there’s an auto shop nearby that can fix this up, and we can forget this kind of gaffe happened.” Ah. Of course Gabriel had the kind of money where he could just  _ carry  _ £300 in his wallet without fear of losing half his life savings. How enviable. 

“Thank you --” But as Aziraphale reached for the money, Gabriel yanked it away again.

“Oh, I hope Crowley’s okay, too.” Aziraphale swallowed a worried yelp and looked back at his car. “It seemed like he took quite a fall after doing… whatever suspicious thing you two were doing.” Aziraphale looked back to see Gabriel having lost all of his good spirit, the fixed gaze of his stormy eyes making him feel even smaller. “I wouldn’t have to remind you of the policy we have here on intra-faculty relationships, would I?”

“N-No! Of course not, sir. I would never be persuaded towards those manner of inclinations.” Aziraphale tended to use big words when he was nervous, and right now he was two steps away from just prostrating himself at Gabriel’s feet and begging for forgiveness for having a car so dentable. “Crowley was just reaching for a file in my backseat. I find it helpful to have someone more experienced take a look at my materials, so that I may teach my students as clearly as possible. One can be the best professor alive, but they’ll still benefit from an extra set of eyes! Haha!” This answer seemed to bring Gabriel’s rehearsed smile back. Thank God.

“He is quite skilled, isn’t he?” Gabriel brought the money back and Aziraphale took it. “Glad to hear that he’s just a mentor to you, instead of anything  _ suspicious _ .”

“Of course, sir. Nothing suspicious,” Aziraphale muttered, resisting the urge to take a relieved exhale in front of Gabriel. He  _ was  _ relieved though, that he didn’t have to drive back home with a busted car and no job. Mercifully, Gabriel did not keep him trapped in the conversation any longer, instead choosing to get back in his car and leave Aziraphale in his dust. As the car worth more than his entire life drove away, Aziraphale turned around to see Crowley opening up his car door and rolling off onto the ground, gangly limbs clambering like he was a squished spider.

“Crowley! Are you okay?” Aziraphale knelt on the ground beside his tangled friend. “Have you broken anything? Should I call someone?”

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” Crowley repeated as he stretched out his limbs, random joints and vertebrae cracking as he stood. Aziraphale rose with him, helping him steady himself. “Okay, I’m okay.” All of the random parts that Crowley ended up having to crack and bend back into shape made Aziraphale start to giggle, and then Crowley followed, and soon they were holding onto each other and laughing. Aziraphale felt his old bones become lighter for a moment.

“Go fix your car,” Crowley said, and despite his desire to stay, Aziraphale decided that he needed to go while things were still open. A dent in his car wouldn’t seriously impede him any, but it’d be just one more thing to worry about and he’d rather not have it on his mind. He got in his car and pulled away, Crowley simply standing and watching him go. 

“Simp.”

“Huh?” Crowley turned around and Beelzebub was suddenly right by his legs, also staring after Aziraphale.

“Sim-PUH.” Beelzebub turned up to Crowley and emphasized the word right in his face.

“What the hell kind of gen Z malarkey are you on about?” Crowley narrowed his eyes at this gutsy toddler.

“Simp!” Oh no. This time, they’d brought along Hastur, with his tan trenchcoat, crazy white hair, and gait of a senile old man.

“Oh, will you can it, you old man?” In reality, Hastur was not very old. He and Crowley were around the same age; Crowley just took a little bit more pride in himself, thank you very much. “You don’t even know what that word means.”

“You don’t know it either, but you sure know how to do it!” Beelzebub snickered.

“I’m leaving.” Crowley turned on his heel and started to walk towards his car.

“Nooooo! Don’t you want to know how badly I just roasted you?” Beelzebub said, grabbing Crowley by the wrist and waving his arm around for good measure. Eventually, after a thorough arm-shaking, Crowley stopped.

“Alright, I’ll bite. What the hell is a ‘simp?’” Crowley sighed, turning back around towards Bee and Hastur. 

“You have a crush on the new history professor --”

“One, I’m a grown man, I don’t have ‘crushes’. Two, no.”

“Then what’s that desperation I smell?” Beelzebub said, already ensnaring Crowley and sniffing him for the sake of emphasis.

“You’re making shit up, you little anklebiter.”

“You don’t follow  _ me _ to the coffee shop and then to my classroom and then back to the coffee shop and then back to my classroom and then to the admin building and then back to my car,” Beelzebub chattered. “And if that isn’t desperation for What’s-His-Face, then I don’t know what I’m doing wrong to not get the same treatment from cool lone-wolf Crowley?” They gave a pouty look up towards Crowley, eyes wide in mock sadness.

“He’s new. Am I such a bad person for trying to help someone not get lost?” Crowley grumbled, trying to pry Beelzebub off of him as they clung like a child to his jacket. 

“No, but usually you’re a  _ terrible  _ person! What happened to ‘you don’t deserve to be on this campus if you can’t even use a map right’ Crowley? If you’re not a simpy little simp boy, then how do you explain the sudden change?” 

“And on another note, is sitting on his lap part of giving him directions or --”

“Quiet, Hastur!” Crowley wished that he had something to whack him with, but he settled for weakly kicking his shin. 

“You can’t block out the truth,” Hastur said, crossing his arms and basking in having the upper hand. “Ligur and I know homoerotic tension when we see it!”

“And so does Gabriel, judging by the way he straight up backed his car into the one you two were in and then told off Azi-whatever about your ‘suspicious’ behavior!” 

“You really trust  _ Gabe _ to have sense in anything?” Crowley spat, once he was sure that said Gabe wasn’t in earshot to hear him call him that. “The man’s anger flares up constantly. Even if he might see something out of context and lose it, we’re not like that.”

“Maybe Azurpadurp isn’t like that, but I can tell  _ you’ve _ got feelings growing in your cold, shriveled little heart.”

“Even if I did want to shag him, you’re really going to start annoying me about it when I’ve already become a famous sex machine?” Crowley kept trying to shrug off Beelzebub to no avail. 

“Oh, shag who you want, girls, boys, whatever. I certainly do. But you and I both know that I’m not accusing you of trying to get a good fuck. You can and do fuck with whatever single person strikes your fancy at the time. But if they don’t respond to your text, you move onto the next one. Am I correct in that assumption, would you say, Hastur?”

“Don’t need to be Sherlock to find it out,” Hastur said in response. Crowley rolled his eyes, but said nothing in protest.

“How about you, playboy?”

“Where the hell are you going with this?” he growled.

“You’re not doing that with Araphizule.”

“Aziraphale.”

“Yeah, right. You’re not doing that with him. You’re spending all your time with him. Like, I don’t think I’ve bumped into you recently when you’re anywhere other than with Aziraphale, or going to see Aziraphale, or coming back from seeing Aziraphale. And with the people you just fuck, you always have to keep that cool-guy costume on, but do cool guys hold hands like you did with Aziraphale? Other girls have tried to do that shit with you, and you react so viscerally to it that it’s like they killed your dog or something. What’s different about Aziraphale that you’re fine with him being so touchy?” Crowley just chose to shut up. He didn’t want to give Beelzebub _or_ Hastur any more ammunition.  
“I think it’s because you’re in -- “

“Don’t!”

“You’re in!”

“Goddamnit Beelzebub I swear --” 

“You’re in love!” Beelzebub and Hastur said it at the same time. That got Crowley ranting.

“Love?!” Crowley threw his arms up in the air. “Love is a lie!”

“Here he goes,” Hastur muttered as Beelzebub began laughing. 

“What people think of love is just chemicals in the brain pushing them to procreate, and falling for it is a gaping vulnerability in even the strongest person! In the end, loving and opening yourself up like that just gives yourself another opportunity to be hurt. Love lures you in only to leave you bitter and stagnant, and it causes you to leave all your dreams behind in pursuit of some person whose appeal will wither and die before your eyes once it’s too late to leave. And then, of course, you’ll both have stupid little children, forever sapping your energy and resources like they’re little leeches! It’s moronic to even think that I could fall for that kind of traditionalist scam at this point, with Aziraphale or anyone else!” Crowley stopped to breathe and realized that people were staring at him and starting to whisper. 

“Monologue all you want, but ol’ Beelzie knows that you’re still a romantic little soft boy inside just yearning for ‘stupid love’ --” But Crowley was already storming away, eyebrows furrowed over the dark glasses that forever obscured his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might go apeshit next chapter and write something that actually deserves that M rating I put for safety [eyes emoji]


	10. Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale turns to God, and gets an answer he didn't expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for major character death/some violence, but it's only in one dream sequence so I'm not putting an archive warning. It starts at "These were the thoughts with which he drifted off to sleep." and ends at about "In a panic Aziraphale grabbed for his phone", if that's not your cup of tea.
> 
> Also *party favor noises* with this chapter we're finally bumping this puppy up to an E rating, boys! I wasn't sure what rating this fic was going to be when I started, but ya know, skate fast, eat ass, bad girls do it well. Let's ride!

With a heaving sigh, Aziraphale slammed his front door behind him and threw his keys onto his kitchen counter. Apparently he had needed repairs on the day when  _ everyone  _ was getting something done to their car. Perhaps related to this, everyone there was also feeling argumentative, whether they bickered with the mechanics, with the teenager working the counter, or with Aziraphale himself when he attempted to be a good samaritan and diffuse things. He wanted to believe that humanity was inherently good like the great Jean Jacques Rousseau had told him in his graduate studies, but then again, what is a belief if it cannot be tested by a random middle-aged woman screaming homophobic slurs in his face?

Aziraphale had to look on the bright side, though. At least the actual dent in his car was easily fixed, despite how bleak it looked on the outside. At least the money that Gabriel gave him for the damages more than covered it. At least he was home now, he thought as he catapulted himself into his bed head-first. Of course he wouldn’t be falling asleep in his loafers and dress shirt; he wasn’t an animal! He just needed to take a moment to breathe, arms spread out among his sheets, ribcage rising and falling ever slower. Once the tendrils of sleep started to lap at his tired mind, he got up and stumbled over to his bathroom, turning on the shower tap with a squeak. Usually, he wouldn’t shower until the morning, but he needed the shower more for an  _ emotional _ cleansing. Once he disrobed and stood under the stream of water, steam enveloped his entire body and he felt the stress of the day drip down the drain. The heat sank into his muscles, held him close, made him feel safe, allowed his eyes to fall closed, and in that moment of weakness he found his mind wandering back to Crowley. What would have happened between them if Gabriel hadn’t been there? In that moment, Crowley was Aziraphale’s entire world, he was so close, he was right on top of him --

No. Aziraphale thrashed his head for a moment, as was his mainstay tactic for getting rid of bad thoughts. Specifically, this thought was what Aziraphale would call  _ sinful and lecherous.  _ It was the kind of thought that lured him away from his life’s purpose and made him want to do things that were against the Laws of Nature. No matter how good it made him feel, that didn’t mean it was on the table. Punching things gave him a momentary sense of pleasure too, but that was also morally wrong. If he could not be a sensible man that could tell right from wrong and obey the Natural Order, then how was he any different from the short-sighted child of 10 years ago?

He put those thoughts out of his mind as he dried himself off, and instead chose to focus on the good feeling that came with putting himself into a nice pair of fleece pajamas. Of course he felt comfy. He felt safe and the things around him felt soft and warm. His car was fixed and he had a good job and why did he still feel like he was missing something?

Once again, Aziraphale was caught just staring up at his ceiling again. He was trying his best to be happy. He was doing everything just as his parents would have wanted him to, and yet, his IKEA set of how to build the perfect life had arrived with some vital screws missing. He flopped over onto his side, clutching his pillow. What else could he possibly need to feel complete, or even like he was on the right path?

The process of taming himself like this was awkward, and he soon realized that that was where his problem was likely to lie. Sure, Aziraphale was doing everything right, getting a nice Christian job at a nice Christian university, keeping his eye out for a nice Christian wife and perhaps even having some nice Christian children in his nice Christian household if he was lucky to have the chance. But being so incredibly correct made his blood sit in cold, stagnant pools. Sometimes, he felt like he was just skating by at this point, not taking any risks, and because of that his heart never beat the way that it should. Survival was definitely in the cards for Aziraphale this way, but would he actually  _ live? _

His own superego chided him for ever thinking such a thought. It was not the fault of anyone else but himself that he had spent his younger years hurting people, and now that he was older and wiser, he had wasted all of his ‘living’ years. Now, he had to change and do something sensible for himself, and he needed to learn to self-flagellate better over anything that was not in line with this heavenly plan. These were the thoughts with which he drifted off to sleep.

But his id had other plans. His id  _ wanted  _ power and it  _ wanted  _ that rush and it frankly didn’t give a damn who else was affected. After seeing it for years, a human begging for their life under his hand was a recurring theme in his dreams. Most often, it was the crying face of some random person that he had seen on the street; whether they had slighted him or even interacted with him didn’t matter. But this time, as insult to injury, because Aziraphale had sinned so badly, this time it was Crowley that deserved to die. 

It was like Aziraphale was trapped in his own body, begging himself to stop. Crowley, of course, was begging too, as much as he could around the blood that had pooled in his mouth. Tears flowed around his glasses, into the lacerations and scrapes on his face, and his feet kicked uselessly at the ground. But as much as they both struggled against their fate, the hand around Crowley’s throat squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter until there was the pop of something important shattering. Right before Crowley fell limp, Aziraphale woke up with a strangled scream of Crowley’s name. Quickly, he sat up, hyperventilating and clutching his chest. His mouth felt bone-dry, though his cheeks were wet with tears. It was a while of panting and crying and whimpering Crowley’s name over and over before he could remotely get the reins on his emotions, to even know that he was alone in his own bedroom.

In a panic Aziraphale grabbed for his phone and squinted as the bright screen singed his eyes. He could barely see the screen through his tears and his sensitive eyes. Still, he scrolled down to C in his contacts and jammed his finger on the call button. It was only after two rings that he realized how not just unreasonable, but absolutely mad he was being. First of all, how did Crowley’s phone number even get into his phone; when did Crowley ever give it to him, or vice versa? Second of all, it was 2:16 in the morning according to his clock and most importantly, what would he have even said if Crowley were to have picked up? “Oh, sorry mate, I was just checking in because I strangled you to death in my dream. That’s a perfectly normal thing to say to someone, yeah?” That was ridiculous. There was no need to bother Crowley with these hauntings when the change needed to fix them had to come from within himself. He threw his phone off to the side and collapsed again, stretching out his sweat-soaked body. It was just a dream, he told himself, but another voice piped up that the thought was still too distressing to dismiss it so easily. Taking deep, shaky breaths, Aziraphale sat up again, straightened his back, wiped away his tears, and clasped his hands in a clumsy prayer.

“Dear God,” he began in a whisper to himself. “I realize that I have been a terrible Christian. I have lied and I have hurt and I have cheated others. I do not deserve to ask you for anything. But please, I know I still haven’t been the best church-goer, but I have been trying to walk the path of righteousness. I want to help others, I want to do good, and I am willing to change in painful ways in order to make that happen. Asking for a miracle is foolish, yes, but may I politely request… I don’t know, a gentle shove in the right direction? The world is so incredibly confusing, and I fear that I have lost sight of how to achieve happiness, all the while this monstrous urge inside me grows stronger and distorts my view. I am a sinner, yes, of the worst sort, but I am also a lost lamb that is trying to be better every day. I am willing to live a life of love and forgiveness and to have a healthier outlet for these horrible feelings inside of me. I just need to be shown how. Please.” He inhaled, then exhaled, trying to steady himself. His prayer had such horrible form and was much too casual for talking to a deity; this is probably why he was never allowed to say Grace at dinner. But he was only a mortal man, and it would have to do.

“Amen.” As he finished his plea, his body became acutely aware of what time it was, and once he closed his eyes, he was out. 

“Aziraphale~! You dog, you know what that does to me! We’re going to get complaints from the neighbors again if you keep doing that~”

This time, Aziraphale was caught in a more obviously dreamlike state. Everything felt soft and like he was constantly moving through water. But that didn’t mean that his sensations were any less vivid. His legs shook from the force of the lust flowing through him, and Crowley was being so whorishly vocal that he couldn’t stop it if he tried. He had Crowley’s entire body lifted up against a wall but he was still so light, like he was a doll to which Aziraphale could do anything. Surrounded by Crowley’s scent, he could sink his teeth deep into his neck and know that that mark of dominance would stay. Most importantly,  _ both  _ of them would love every minute of it. Crowley tugging at his white hair and running his sharp nails along his back was just enough sensation to egg him on further. 

“Oh god, Aziraphale, yes, just like that, so good, oh god I’m so close, oh god ohgodohgodohgod --”

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open as his orgasm rocked his entire body, legs flailing under his blanket. He placed his hand on his chest and felt his heart pounding against his ribcage, only starting to calm down when he went into his afterglow. 

_ Well. _ That was, um… something. 

Now, the time on his phone read 5:32 AM, just a smidge earlier than he would usually get up. Of course, though, this gave him extra time to watch his now-sticky sheets. And his pants. And his shirt, since it was now soaked with sweat and other liquids related to the kind of dream he’d just had. Once he came to his senses and realized what had happened, he blushed even brighter and hid his face in his hands. When was the last time that he had gotten so pent up that he had to wash his own cum out of his sheets? It had to be decades ago, when he was a horny teenager; it was certainly never in his actual adult life. Still, no matter how much it shocked him, it was something that Aziraphale had to do now, lest things start to get very cold and uncomfortable down there. 

As he gathered up his soiled sheets, he thought of his 2 AM prayer. Was this another trial from a cruel god that wanted to test whether he really would stay on the path of righteousness? Or… was this the outlet that he was looking for? Before his mind had to be concerned with practical things like the state of his bedsheets, he had attained the completeness that he had prayed for. He felt so very powerful, so alive, and yet he could make other people feel good too. The fact that it was Crowley that appeared in his dream, well, he didn’t know quite what  _ that  _ meant. Or rather, he  _ did _ know what it was likely to mean, but his relationship with Crowley was already getting complicated so he chose to feign ignorance, even with himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And God hath descended from Her holy throne and declared, "Fuck him right in the ass"

**Author's Note:**

> Still kicking around ideas as to where I want this gay mess to go; feel free to critique and suggest things in the comments! Otherwise, if you don't want this to continue, feel free to use the comments to bully me off of the internet


End file.
